


Assorted Tumblr Request Fics

by Sara Generis (kanadka)



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Merpeople, Alternate Universe - Stripper/Exotic Dancer, F/F, Gen, Historical References, M/M, Multi, Xenophilia
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-21
Updated: 2018-01-25
Packaged: 2018-05-22 12:25:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 21
Words: 35,300
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6079215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kanadka/pseuds/Sara%20Generis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>People ask me to write things, and then I write the things*! I didn't realise so many of them were x-rated, but people kept giving me explicit prompts. hooray for smut peddler me.</p><p>All rarepairs, lots of Estonia. See chapter titles inside for the pairing and any relevant warnings. If you see no 'AU' mark on it, it's nationverse.</p><p>*I write the things faster if I happen to get easy ideas for them and sometimes I don't!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. (T) Canada & Estonia - "quidditch" (AU: Pottertalia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Polarstern](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelaecter/pseuds/Polarstern), for the prompt 'Canada + Estonia, rival seekers (as in Quidditch) AU', for a 'three sentences fic' meme.
> 
> HAHAHAH, THREE SENTENCES. YEAH. SURE.
> 
> Steinsvik is my Norway name. I've also here used Ndomo for Cameroon, Cecile Vel for Seychelles, and Anh Pham for Vietnam.

How does a rivalry begin?

For Matthew Williams, sixth-year Slytherin and Seeker for the Quidditch team for the first year ever, it began on a quiet autumn day.

He had a perfectly normal breakfast, surprising only in that he had far fewer nerves than he expected before his very first games day. Following that, he did an hour of Potions homework with Cecile Vel, during which they accomplished nothing but agreement that no matter how many essays this school would have them write, none of them would ever sound anything but extremely cheesy.

And when that had lapsed into gigglefits over _four decilitres of tarantula hair infusion was then added to the tincture of rosemary, and the substance was turned puce upon three stirs counter-clockwise_ because there are only so many times you can write the passive voice before you feel like a complete _tool_ , Matthew’s nerves had cascaded from a babbling trickle into the dangerous rapids of the shakes. It’s just as well he didn’t feel like writing anymore - Professor Isis took points off for sloppy penmanship.

The minutes dragged on and on until ten-thirty, which was when their captain and Centre Chaser Yao Wang liked them to meet in the locker rooms for a pre-game pep talk.

“Blah blah blah,” he said, “and a Confucius quote, and something about true sportsmanship -”

“And sports- _lady_ -ship,” Outside Chaser Erzsébet Héderváry chimed in.

“Sports-lady-ship isn’t even a thing!”

“Says you,” Cecile - Blind Side Beater - retorted.

“I don’t care! You all know how this work. You all know how angry I get when we lose. So? Don’t make me angry!”

With cries of ‘sir, yes sir!’ - not all genuine - the team disbanded.

Yao pulled Matthew aside. “Look, new kid,” he said.

“It’s Matthew,” he replied patiently.

“Okay. Matthew new kid. Anyway look, Ravenclaw’s Seeker? He actually pretty good.”

Matthew puffed out his chest. “So am I!”

Yao rolled his eyes. “Not that good. What I am saying? Don’t be afraid to give him a little fight, okay? You make him scared, he drop things, pay no attention, not searching for Snitch too hard. You understand?”

“I get it,” and Matthew did indeed, remembering back to his earlier days before he was even accepted to Wizarding school, when he played hockey with the muggle kids down the road, and nobody left the rink without something bloodied.

They met on the pitch face-to-face at eleven sharp. The stands were half-full that day. There was nothing especially important about a Slytherin-Ravenclaw match, and in fact it was widely known that Slytherin disliked Ravenclaw least, so many students expected there to be nothing of excitement in this game. Those that were there, were largely supporters and friends of the team, and a few from the other houses hoping to get strategy ideas.

Everybody stood across from their partners on the opposite team. And this is the moment we must remember.

Matthew’s partner, the Ravenclaw Seeker, was a skinny blond boy who honestly didn’t look like very much. Similar build as Matthew’s - well, every Seeker worth their salt was slight as a jockey - and a clever, pinched look in his face that expressed how much more highly he thought of himself than everybody else here. Well, that’s a Ravenclaw for you, thought Matthew. They all think they’re the next bloody Merlin.

The boy wore glasses, but that didn’t give Matthew anything upon him, because so too did Matthew.

‘Von Bock’ his nameplate read, pinned neatly to his chest.

_Von!_

Sure sounded like an aristocrat to Matthew. That explained the nasty look on his face.

But, ever sportslike, Matthew extended a hand which von Bock took, gripped primly, and shook once.

It was a shame. If it weren’t for von Bock’s expression, they might have even been friends.

_Don’t be afraid to give him a little fight, okay?_

Before von Bock could release his hand, Matthew pulled him in closer with a sudden jerk and sneered as maliciously as he could manage, “Good luck.”

Von Bock’s expression soured but he didn’t say anything.

The referee held the Quaffle high in the air. “On your marks!” he cried.

The players straightened to attention.

“Get set!”

Their brooms leapt into their waiting hands.

“Game!”

And they rushed into the air.

Immediately, Anh was in Slytherin’s goalposts, darting in and between them the second the Quaffle was in play. Honda from Ravenclaw got the Quaffle first and played keep away with Arlovskaya for entirely too long than is necessary. (Yao had warned them all about those two - famous fast friends and thick as thieves, and eager to score a goal a minute if you’d let them.) As much as Feliks and Yao tried, they couldn’t intercept anything from them until from practically nowhere, Erzsébet shot between them and intercepted Honda’s pass. She stole the Quaffle away, spiriting it with her halfway down the pitch before anybody was the wiser.

She passed back, rugby-style, to Yao. Yao kept it up, tossed to Feliks - Feliks carried it another few yards until Arlovskaya gained on him - Feliks tossed it back to Yao. And Yao shot and scored it past Steinsvik, the Ravenclaw keeper.

“Too slow!” Yao shrieked merrily.

“Awful unbecomin’ to keep talkin’ ‘bout _oneself_ ,” Steinsvik snapped back - permanently superior, but never above trash-talk.

He threw the Quaffle out to Arlovskaya, who batted it back and forth with Honda like a pair of cats before they let Kirkland have a turn. That was charitable of them, but Kirkland was a first year and probably too young to be on the pitch at all (Ravenclaw must’ve been desperate for players) and before poor wee Kirkland could do a thing, Yao had zoomed by him and startled the ball out of his hands. It fell neatly to Feliks, waiting below, and he whisked it away towards the Ravenclaw goalposts again.

“‘S alright, Pete,” called a low voice near Matthew. This was Oxenstierna, a giant Beater with a killer arm and good aim, and one of the only reasons Ravenclaw was ever a contender for Quidditch Cups. “Yer doin’ good.”

Of course, that was when Cecile and Antonio - ever the jokers - got twin looks of evil across their faces and tracked down one of the bludgers. Slowly and surely they reined it in until they had it well controlled between their two bats, volleying it back and forth - and then they waited until the prime moment to smack it to Kirkland.

It knocked him clear off his broom and sent him sailing to the ground. And you could hear the scream for miles.

Ndomo - the other Beater - was there in a second to catch him and then help him back upon his own broom, but the damage was done. As Cecile and Antonio cackled away, Kirkland gripped the handle and proceeded to shake so hard he might’ve pissed himself.

Matthew wasn’t sorry. You play with the snakes, you play _dirty_.

And speaking of _dirty_ \- and people who were too clean and proud and above all that and who really ought to be taken down a peg or nine - von Bock swept past him.

Fast.

…Too fast.

In horror, Matthew gasped. He’d seen the Snitch!

He shook himself out of his daze to let the Quaffle and Bludger antics be settled by the rest of his team and put on the gas.

He dodged the one Bludger sent his way by Oxenstierna. Matthew was too good a flier on too good a broom to be taken down like that. With a press of his wrist on the handle, his Sforzando 5K responded and zoomed him out of the way.

Faster, faster! He had to catch that damn brainiac before he got his hands even _near_ the gold -

But now that Matthew thought of it, he had seen nothing at all. No glint, no flicker, not a thing. If von Bock were chasing the Snitch, he had better eyes than Matthew, and with glasses that thick, it was unlikely.

He’s feinting, Matthew decided. And then he thought, let him think his trick’s working.

Matthew sped up. He’d catch up alright, but not for the Snitch - for von Bock. Teach him a lesson. Show him what happens when you try and get smart on the pitch.

A Bludger streaked its way past him. He should thank von Bock - if it weren’t for trying to match the speedy little nerd’s pace, that might’ve hit him. “Hey!!” he cried.

"Sorry!” Antonio shouted. “Friendly fire!”

“Aim it at the other team, if you wouldn’t mind!” Matthew shouted back.

He’d almost lost him! von Bock was up ahead, just a little faster, if Matthew could speak to his broom he would have told it go, go, urging it verbally.

They flew side by side at a breakneck pace until von Bock finally clued in that he was being matched. He tossed his head back over his shoulder, threw Matthew a filthy look and cried, “Piss off!”

He had a lower voice than Matthew had expected and Matthew wondered exactly how old he was. All Matthew knew, von Bock wasn’t in his year. “It’s a free country, I fly where I want,” he retorted.

Von Bock replied by veering into his line of flight and nearly cutting him off.

“Foul!!” Matthew cried, but the referee didn’t hear him, didn’t see it, or didn’t care. No more mister nice guy.

Although, it was true, he hadn’t started nice.

Well, it was about to get worse!

He sped up again and caught the tail end of von Bock’s broom, nestling his handle right up the bristles. That messed with the controls in most brooms. Von Bock began to swerve, his broom wiggling just enough to annoy, and it was too dangerous for him to keep up his current flying pace. He whirled around and screamed, “I said, _piss off!_ ”

“Not a chance!” Matthew replied, and drove his handle harder into von Bock’s broom. Now, von Bock had no choice but to fall out of position and slow down, or risk losing flight control.

He did neither. He clutched his knees around the handle and _pushed_ , and bit by bit began to fly away -

So Matthew sped up -

\- and suddenly von Bock halted. Matthew hit his leg and veered off course at a risky speed.

Nice try, he thought. He slowed to a turning velocity, looped around, doubled back and returned to flank von Bock from the left.

Von Bock pressed back from the right and they flew like that in tandem for a few seconds, neither too gutsy to go for anything overt, both too proud to give in - when suddenly there was a strong gust of wind and Matthew’s broom pressed him just a bit too closely to von Bock’s personal space.

Von Bock misinterpreted, retaliated immediately, and walloped him in the side.

Matthew knew a body-check when he felt it. He drove his broom onwards and up and straight into von Bock’s path. It knocked him nearly off his broom.

When he’d righted himself back on the handle, von Bock turned, a murderous look in his eyes.

Matthew couldn’t help it - he _smirked_.

(He could swear, you could hear the growl von Bock emitted clear across the pitch, but when he asked his friends later, they claimed it was only between the two Seekers.)

Von Bock charged. Matthew leapt at the chance, surging forward and shoving him on his way by on the shoulder. But it did nothing, he was better than he looked, because he was back in an instant, returning Matthew’s blows with one of his own, and it cost them both altitude but it didn’t matter! This little shit had to be _taught_ , and Matthew didn’t spend all those years with a bent stick and a puck and no helmet for nothing!

Blow after blow, like knights on horses but far less civilised. At one point he caught an elbow in the gut. Winded momentarily, Matthew mustered the breath to come back with a shoulder to von Bock’s jaw. He hoped he got von Bock’s pointy little nose too!

He flew back around to check.

No luck, no blood. Von Bock’s arrogant little face remained untarnished.

It made Matthew angrier. He surged forward on the broom, pulled up at the last moment and walloped von Bock in the face with the tough bristle-end of his Sforzando.

He heard a shout, and then a wet splat.

Success!

Matthew returned to survey the damage with a peculiar glee.

Von Bock lay, face down in the mud, his arms outstretched and his leg at a very strange angle. It must have been the distance, but he looked impossibly small - although as Matthew approached it didn’t get any better.

The roar of the crowd momentarily faded away. Matthew felt his heart sink. But at no point did the referee call foul!

…But von Bock wasn’t moving.

Oh, this isn’t good, he thought. He slowed down and stopped, then dismounted, leaving his broom on the ground next to von Bock’s where it had fallen and ejected its rider. “Hey - uh, look,” he began.

Von Bock made no sound and did not move.

“Okay, well, I won’t be held accountable for you drowning in the mud because you’re a shit flier!” Matthew snapped, and reached down to pull von Bock up by the shoulder.

Von Bock reacted suddenly, twisted his upper body and flew a fist square into Matthew’s face before Matthew even knew what was happening.

It broke his glasses, and probably his nose. “You _prick!!_ “ Matthew screamed. He resisted the urge to tear off what remained of his glasses - he could see out of one lens, that’d be enough to finish a fight - and landed a blow to the corner of von Bock’s smarmy little mud-smeared mouth.

It was four blows in, each of them landing on a part of the face or the body or anywhere they could hit each other, after Matthew’s knuckles had split and von Bock’s face was an ugly mess of brown and red, before they heard the whistle. Matthew froze, his fist in midair and his other clutching the collar of von Bock’s uniform, with von Bock’s grip tight around his wrist and his foot poised to kick. “C’mon you two,” called the referee. “Break it up or I start dealing out the penalties.”

"You could at least like take it to the skies!” screamed out Feliks from above.

And that’s when the Snitch floated by, like a meandering sparrow, delicate and oblivious to two angry, muddy, filthy boys still gripping each other’s uniforms, both watching in shock and horror as the Snitch sauntered around, lazily surveying the scene -

\- and then darted away.

Matthew and von Bock threw themselves off each other so quickly they each were forced back, and then both made a mad dash for the brooms. As best he could, Matthew tried to trip the stupid bugger en route, but he was more graceful on his feet than he looked and the best Matthew got in was a quick stumble, while he himself nearly slipped in the wet soil and fell flat on his face.

Naturally, Matthew checked him once more to the ground before he picked up the broom and flew into the air.

It took him a moment to realise he was on von Bock’s broom. It handled funny, it didn’t respond like his own, and now that he noticed it, it was a pathetic loser’s broom - a Tropozoom? You’ve gotta be kidding me! he thought.

And then another, equally terrifying thought - to have made Seeker with a broom this shitty - he had to have been a really, _really_ good flier.

And _now he had Matthew’s Sforzando!!_

Matthew needed as head a start as he could provide towards the Snitch. There it was, yards ahead, glinting in the sunlight. Faster, he prayed, steeling himself, pressing his chest close to the handle of that shitty Tropozoom.

Cecile called something out to him but he paid her no mind, focussed solely on the Snitch. She must have decided something was up, because she and Antonio began dealing Bludgers his way.

Not friendly fire, this time.

Von Bock on his heels. They were aiming for _him_.

But as dream team as Cecile and Toni were, Oxenstierna and Ndomo weren’t half bad either, and flew around them menacingly. Matthew dodged up, narrowly missing what would’ve been a nasty hit from Ndomo, and his lapse of concentration cost him the lead as von Bock sped ahead.

So close, so close! Just another minute more, it’d be his - so long as the Chasers were doing their part, and Matthew wasn’t sure they were, because there were an awful lot of cheers and activity on the Slytherin side of the pitch -

BAM!

A Bludger to the face. Not a full hit but it had lanced off his cheekbone and knocked his nose. Matthew felt his nose start to run - it was almost certainly broken by now. Not the first time he’d broken it.

But it had given von Bock precisely the edge he’d needed, and as Matthew watched in horror as he tried to catch up, von Bock stretched his hand out, prepared to enclose his spindly long fingers around the tiny gold ball -

Matthew put another burst of speed on and forced the broom to the right at the last moment. He checked von Bock and knocked him out of the way.

But just as Matthew grazed the Snitch with a single finger, he heard a sickening crack and something hit him hard on the side of the head.

“Ha!” he heard Oxenstierna say, and it was the second last thing he heard before he lost consciousness completely -

No, the last thing he heard was von Bock’s triumphant cry of, “ _MINE!_ ”


	2. (G) Russia & Estonia - "potions" (AU: Pottertalia)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [mmmmmaple](mmmmmaple.tumblr.com). 'RusEst, Hogwarts! (potions class or something?). Omfg, I'm so sorry.' I should be sorry for not writing more!

He doesn’t know _how_ , exactly, but it must have been Braginski who added the oil of camphor when he wasn’t looking. Maybe it’s his own fault for taking his eyes off the cauldron - but it was in the simmering stage, you’re supposed to leave it! and a watched pot doesn’t boil! - but he knows the truth. Braginski’s had it in for him ever since Eduard’s older brother accidentally broke Braginski’s sister’s nose with an overly-enthusiastic _Expelliarmus_.

“Now, Ed, look, it’s - erm, it’s really not so bad,” reminds Erzsébet, his fellow Ravenclaw and potions partner of five years. “This isn’t too unsalvageable, I think it’ll be okay -”

The cauldron interrupts her by boiling over a thick, syrupy green concoction that smells like musky feces. A bubble bursts and splashes on Eduard’s robes.

He’s certain he’s not imagining Braginski’s high-pitched, musical giggle from across the dungeon. Oh, he’s so angry he could _scream_ …

“Okay, well, we can get everything re-done before the Professor comes back. And, you know, even if we don’t have the time, it’s only five percent -”

“Five percent that I’m _not getting back!_ No way. Braginski will pay dearly,” Eduard vows in a deadly low voice as he wipes the crud off his sleeve. This means _war_.


	3. (M) Russia/Canada - "strippers" (warning: dubcon)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Polarstern](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelaecter/pseuds/Polarstern), for a 30 day cheesy AU meme, for 'RusCan and stripper AU'.
> 
> RusCan and implied RusEst, **dubcon** , slightly dark and dystopic. And stripping, of course.

After the smoke from the last bombs cleared, there was a single gigantic house that figured on the landscape, painted red, with an immense tower, adorned by a red star on top, circled by smaller towers with gilt-and-striped onion domes, like a bonfire stretching to the sky.

He’d won! Finally he’d won! And the entire world was one with him, and this great beautiful house would be large enough to house them all. A room for everybody!

Well. Maybe not one for _everybody_. Perhaps brothers would have to share a room. And sisters. And so the Baltics took one room, Neo-Yugoslavia took another (except for Serbia and Croatia, who managed to negotiate their own), the North American siblings took another, all of the United Kingdom took one room, with Ireland sharing quarters with France, because it _was_ a rather large room France had and Ireland wouldn’t sleep with the UK, both Germanies in one, both Italies in another, the horn of Africa in one room, along the east-coast in another (Kenya and Eritrea were not fans of this, but they could take it up with him if they liked), India with Nepal, Pakistan with Bangladesh, Central America in one room, but one very large room - the list went on.

Russia, of course, got a master suite.

How else would you have room for entertainment? That was where they would all bunk out and enjoy festivities, like drink until three AM, there was a small cinema for the best state movies, a modest kitchenette for snacks, a games table, all sorts of amenities. You needed a master suite for all that!

And the back room, of course, linked to Russia’s inner chambers, which housed a few more… exotic items.

Like the pole in the middle of the room. Or the two strips of a medium stretch fabric, or the hoop, or trapeze, or any other manner of fun swinging things, all bolted to the ceiling.

Tonight, he asks for Canada, because Canada is a lovely dancer. Russia believes it might come from all that practice on the ice. In the aftermath, nobody is nearly as happy as they say they are, but things may yet change, Russia has a few new state movies that will hopefully inspire some patriotism for their new union. Canada is one of the very few who hides his unhappiness well. Russia is well aware he must be upset, for after having seen through _certain things_ to the end, it is very difficult to find him ice anymore now that the world is too hot for it; but on the silks, Canada is still graceful and jumps and leaps into the air with his old pride.

The fabric is soft, but real silk, it is not (China, that mean hoarder that he is, wouldn’t let Russia have any for this purpose). It is the bright red of the new world state and to see Canada dancing among it will give Russia the great joy that he needs to relax after a day’s hard work.

For the music, Canada has selected a lovely scherzo by Shostakovich - not Russia’s favourite composer, he was a bit dissident for Russia’s tastes, but the music is inherently, incredibly Russian and to see Canada - topless, in skintight brown leggings - ascend the silks to the tune of modified folk songs, it inspires such patriotism in Russia’s heart!

It inspires _much_ in Russia’s heart.

To watch him wrap the red fabric around his legs and hang upside down, twist his thin body into a spin, faster and faster as he brings his arms in close, slower still when he rearranges his body outwards, until he slows and twists the red fabric around his body, like a snake in whose clutches Canada is trapped, writhing, helpless…

…yes, it inspires very much indeed.

Canada spirals out of the knot he has worked himself into and lands in a perfect dismount, to Russia’s exuberant applause. “Beautiful! Very beautiful!” exclaims Russia. “ _Bravissimo! Une autre, encore?_ ”

“Sure, one more,” says Canada.

“Ah, but if you could,” Russia adds. “You don’t really need the pants, do you?”

“Um.” Canada looks uncomfortable. “I would prefer them on.”

“But I insist!” Russia says. “ _I_ would prefer them off.”

Canada stops. He reconsiders, and swallows. “Alright,” he finally agrees, and bends to remove them.

Canada - Russia knows because he has been watching his body very, _very_ carefully - is not wearing anything underneath the leggings. Russia blushes and smiles. Canada straightens, covering his groin awkwardly with his hands held clasped in front of him, feigning casualness. “You’re sure?” he asks.

“I’m very sure,” says Russia huskily. “Please, another.”

So Canada ascends again, and Russia watches in glee as he climbs, this time fully nude, up the length of the fabric with it knotted around his left foot. Once he has reached a decent height - ten feet in the air, that’s not so much but this part of the house does not have the highest ceilings (Russia considers, perhaps he will move Australia and New Zealand out into another place, surely they don’t need all that room) - he then swings his body outwards, holding the fabric at top in his hands, with his ankle trapped at the bottom, one leg free to point and pose. In a single motion, he lets go with one hand and swings his body around, with the trapped foot back under his ass. He kicks the other foot out to grab the silk again front of him and twists it around his ankle.

Then in another fluid motion, he wraps the silk around the leg not imprisoned and drops everything to hang there upside down, spinning fast.

As he is doing this, he is paying very little attention to Russia, who has taken advantage of his distraction, has loosened his pants and put his hand inside them. He is enjoying the show very much - this is merely… conveying his appreciation - and it’s good that Canada isn’t watching him touch himself. Canada must focus so as not to be injured, for that would be bad, injured workers don’t support the state. Although Russia can think of a few tasks a slightly injured Canada could accomplish in his bedroom.

Canada grabs the silk at the bottom with his hands and loosens it at his ankle, then spins himself into a partial dismount, placing himself lower on the fabric. He loops it around his waist to complete the dismount by spiralling himself, hands-free, to the ground.

He bows, and looks up when he has not heard any applause from Russia.

Russia’s hands are a bit… _busy_. But he smiles very widely and says, “That was very lovely.”

“Uh… th-thanks,” Canada replies. He looks shocked and surprised, but not entirely disgusted.

“Would you please come here, so kindly?” asks Russia. “I would thank you properly for your… performance.”

Here, Canada frowns, and collects his leggings. As he redresses he says, “You have others in your harem to titillate your senses physically. I’m just the eye candy.”

That’s true. All of the positions are pre-determined because every state worker has to know exactly what they’re doing. Like cogs in a machine. And if you will indeed make a machine of the man, you cannot expect it to retain man-like abilities such as multi-aptness. For a jack of all trades is master of none.

So Russia pouts. “Send Estonia in, then,” he replies sullenly, because he’s unhappy and it will brighten him slightly to take it out on Estonia’s perfect smug face.

Nevertheless, Russia takes this advice to heart, and files the papers to have their positions switched.

The following week, Estonia instead is the one performing dances, so that Canada can be his bedwarmer.

Estonia _can_ be graceful, Estonia _can_ be lithe and svelte and acrobatic… but Estonia is not being any of these things, which is on purpose, and Estonia (naturally) selects Estonian music. Evidently, someone needs to review his state movies. But at least he’s smiling, which is something, this tells Russia that he’s much happier dancing on his feet than on his back.

But worse of all, he finds Canada has no intention of being his bedwarmer with as great a smile on his face. Russia gets what he wants, but an unhappy union worker, works to rule. And now, there are no more encores.


	4. (E) Russia/Canada - "strippers" (AU: humans; also fem!Russia and fem!Canada)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Polarstern](), for a 30 day cheesy AU meme, for 'RusCan and stripper AU'.
> 
> I wrote a second one! This one is more true to form to the "stripper AU" theme, I think. Keep in mind I've never actually been to a strip club so it might not be at all realistic of the Strip Club Experience™.

Tonight is a special night for Anya, although tomorrow promises to be even more special. It is the night before her sister Natalya’s wedding, for whom her other sister Katya has planned a great celebration full of all manner of ridiculous things as a sendoff to singledom. Natasha, bless her, is a very grave and serious person sometimes but she loosens up a little during the bachelorette party and by the time everybody is three drinks in, Katya suggests the strip club, pretending spontaneity when in fact it is carefully calculated, and Natasha enthusiastically agrees.

The strip club is a nice, clean place, with flashing lights and clean tables, but overpriced drinks. The cover is twenty dollars alone. Natasha’s of course is paid - the bride-to-be, identified by a wide bright pink plastic over-the-shoulder sash, doesn’t pay for anything at her bachelorette - and she gets a kiss for her troubles from the lady at the door. This makes Anya blush more than the posters on the walls, advertising well-built, muscled men with very little on and large bulges between their legs that Anya thinks are probably part sock. 

It’s a little bit fun to watch them, Anya guesses. They sit at the side of the runway. Many in their group are exuberantly screaming, waving tip money for the men, who take turns gyrating above them, to come closer and give them a little something special for the low price of a bill stuffed in their thong.

But it’s awkward. And raunchy. And kind of makes her skin crawl. The men don’t dance so much as they thrust their bodies around. Not like a ballet dancer would do, and the muscles are the sort of muscles you get when all you want to do is define your body and show it off, not because you have many years of dancing talent under your belt. Part of her is enjoying the idea that Katya espouses - _let’s do the objectifying instead of being objectified for a change_. Katya, with those breasts, would certainly know how it feels to be objectified, and as such Anya is not surprised to see Katya among the loudest screamers, slapping some of the men on their pert, hard, spandex-clad buttocks.

At the same time, however, the men are smirking. Glorying in the attention, basking in it, they’re smug, they _love_ being the centre of attention. This is not like a strip club for men, staffed by women, this is not the same kind of dirty, disgusting depravedness that makes one wonder why the dancers have had to sink so low.

So she thinks, anyway. It’s not like she’s ever had the courage to step inside one of _those_.

No, it’s been cleaned up for them and it sells them the illusion of using men, an illusion of evening a playing field, when in reality the men are using them all along.

Still, it’s amusing if nothing else.

It takes her another two drinks to realise she’s the only one not really enjoying herself. It seems even alcohol can’t brighten her mood tonight! Something appears to be lacking, maybe in her, maybe in the party’s events - maybe she’s even jealous that Natasha - the _baby_ \- despite being a mix of dour and just plain strange - has managed to snag a husband before either her older two sisters. Not that Anya has ever really tried to get a man - but now that Natasha has one, she wonders what she’s missing. If she’s missing something. Does she even care?

She hasn’t had enough alcohol for these sorts of questions, so Anya says her goodbyes and leaves.

She walks home and stops by - incidentally - another strip club.

This one… is a little truer to form. She considers it, mostly looking at the women on the walls. Their bodies nearly naked, too-thin limbs splayed in a manner that’s supposed to be alluring, she guesses.

She watches too long and the bouncer, who doesn’t look at her but detects someone, says nastily, “Five dollars cover.” When she doesn’t reply or move, he looks up. Then he leers her over and says, “Fer you? No charge.”

“Ah. Thank you,” she murmurs. “That’s generous.”

He holds the door open.

She’s clearly had far too much to drink.

Might as well.

She doesn’t know what she’s going to find but she has incredibly low expectations. She sits down at a small table, not near the stage, and a scantily-clad busty and loud woman gives her a vodka when she asks for it. (It comes on the rocks. She picks out the ice cubes and drinks it neat. Why would you ever dilute vodka?) She watches a few dances and believe it or not, feels less uncomfortable watching the women’s bodies than she did the men. Some of them are really good at what they do - the pole dancers were probably gymnasts at some point in their lives or professionals. _Real_ professionals, she means. Dancers who dance because they love it.

But then again, she thinks, she shouldn’t be quite so judgemental - suppose they still like dancing?

They look sexy, they look confident. Anya would probably like dancing if that’s how it made her feel.

Some of the others, perhaps not so much - these are hamming it up awfully for the drooling men near the bar, squatting down, spreading their legs, dragging the pole between the cheeks of their asses without much artistry or technique.

She watches the men themselves for about two minutes before she gets sick of that. No, they’re too disgusting. The club is pretty well full of them, ogling the women like rare steaks.

But there’s one woman who comes on the runway, with a funny way of dancing that seems at once self-confident and coy. She isn’t tall but her stiletto heels give her a few extra inches. She has incredible legs, displayed alluringly in fishnet thigh-highs, held up with a garter belt. The fishnet makes her thighs seem thinner still and her ankles seem tiny as she hooks them around the pole. She’s obviously not nearly with the fancy tricks as some of the others - no gymnastics here, all she does is hook her legs around the pole and swing her body around it, this way and that, point her toes here and there, but she has a certain style that isn’t slutty and isn’t precise, just a natural kinetic movement - and it helps that she’s pretty, a beautiful face like hers could’ve gone far, what’s made her end up here?

With gross men like the one leering at her now, drooling on the runway, pudgy and hairy, old and white.

Anya shudders.

“If you don’t order another, we’re gonna have to kick you out,” says the loud waitress. “Two-drink minimum. This here’s a business, and it’s paying customers only, so either you fork over another drink or we give you the boot!”

“I don’t have to spend my money on alcohol, do I?” asks Anya, watching the old white man fork over money to the lovely young woman on the stage, who accepts it happily, a cute smile on her pretty face. She’s a fine actress.

“Well you ain’t been spendin’ it on the girls,” the waitress snaps back.

Actually, that’s not a bad idea.

“Can I buy a dance?” she asks. “From her?”

The waitress gives her a funny look. “You. Wanna lap dance.”

Anya fights the blush and keeps her smile fixed.

In reality, she has no idea what she’s doing, but if she buys this girl, maybe that creep won’t? Sure, that works to satisfy her conscience. Maybe she’ll have another drink after all!

“Always the quiet ones,” says the waitress. “Next time, you go to a proper bar for this kind of thing, one for your kind, ‘cos this here’s a regular ordinary -”

“I don’t mind,” coos a soft voice. It’s the girl from the stage, naturally. How she manages to have heard everything is surprising to Anya - the waitress is loud, but Anya is not. She descends - her short skirt flutters up her thighs as she hops off the stage, and Anya’s heart skips a beat -

“Come with me,” the girl purrs - there’s no other word for it - and Anya lets herself be dragged away by the hand, more than happy to leave the snotty waitress.

The girl does not introduce herself, so Anya has to make do with as much visual identification as possible. Blond hair - looks natural - small waist, large hips for her stature. She smells sweet, like spun candy and shea butter. Probably her hand creme. Heavy makeup, but not as heavy as some of the women from back in Russia. On her, it all looks so natural and beautiful.

And she has purple eyes, but that must be coloured contacts. Perhaps it picks up the guys who want a manic pixie dream girl.

She leads Anya into a small room, dimly lit, smokey with the heady scent of incense, sparsely furnished. There’s a small table and a chaise longue upholstered in lurid red velvet. It’s clear what’s meant to happen in a room like this. The girl spins Anya around by the hand and then presses her down by the shoulders to sit on the chaise longue. Anya does, but keeps one foot planted on the ground. Like she can get up and run away any time she likes.

“Don’t mind Amelia. She’s a little tough for us. And you have to admit, you’re not our usual kind of client.”

“Mm-hmm,” replies Anya.

“Take your coat off,” the girl says coyly. “Stay awhile.”

The music starts, and so does the dance. She sort of sways to the music, less a dance move and more responding to sound energy, as though testing waters with one’s toes, seeing how much she can push before Anya will just leave. In fact, Anya is perfectly spellbound, and can hardly move from where she sits, rapt, on the velveteen chaise longue. With shaking fingers she manages to lift her little vodka glass to her lips.

This is a _lot_ more arousing than watching men gyrate.

“The way this works,” explains the girl, as she twirls in front of Anya and then bends low in a squat, to rise back up slowly, her rear end high in the air and her chest at eye level, “is you can touch any part of me you want.” She drags her hands down along her body, along the sides of her breasts, her hips, along the front of her thighs. “Any part. No penetration. House rules. But, ah… that’s not really an issue with you, eh? I say what you can and can’t do, a-and I don’t do kissing, but anything else is fair game. I can touch you - if you let me, of course.”

“But why would you be touching me?” asks Anya.

“So I can do this.” The girl comes closer. She swings one leg over Anya’s lap and straddles her tightly, her entire weight on Anya’s body, with Anya’s hips trapped between her thighs. “Unless you don’t want,” she adds.

“No, it’s fine,” Anya whispers.

The girl smiles, then takes her shirt off. Two plump, large breasts, encased in a pretty lacey red bra, fill her vision - Anya can’t take her eyes off them.

her“Remember,” says the girl, as she picks up Anya’s hand - the one that isn’t clutching the vodka glass in a terrified death grip - “you can touch me.” She places Anya’s hand on her breast, over the bra, and leans back in a deep swoon that must be hell on her abdominal muscles. Her thighs grip Anya’s _hard_ , but somehow the girl manages still to shift her hips in time to the beat, writhing on Anya’s lap, grinding herself closer.

“Oh my god,” Anya mutters. The girl sways back and forth in front of her, her long hair tickling Anya’s knees, the only part of her skin that’s bare, exposed between her boots and her knee-length skirt. Anya doesn’t realise until the girl surfaces again, but her fingers have been busy behind her back and her bra is unclasped. The first chorus to the song plays and - Anya gulps - the girl in her lap removes her bra in a single graceful motion.

Her breasts are, for lack of a better word, perfect. Round and soft, not so perky that they’re fake - they can’t be fake - the aureoles of the nipples larger than she expected but erect and pointed - it can’t be that cold in here, Anya certainly feels like her body is on fire. “Relax,” says the girl, and with her hand covering Anya’s, gently coaxes Anya’s fingers around her nipple, and pinches it.

“Oh my god,” Anya says again.

The girl in her lap moans, her head thrown back, her blond hair cascading over her naked shoulders, and grinds her pelvis harder into Anya’s lap.

The song goes up a key, and the girl sits up. Anya gasps. “Don’t worry,” says the girl sweetly, leaning in close, almost close enough to kiss, what a _tease_. “I’m not going anywhere.” She hops off Anya’s lap - that cruel skirt flips up again, flashing the back of her thighs and -

And that’s when she takes the skirt off. It laces at the sides, Anya notes, as her attention is magnetised to the girl’s hips as they move. The lower part is a fluttery, breezy sort of material so the only part keeping it on her is the waistband, tied tight. The girl puts her fingers in the loops of the bows and pulls.

\- and the skirt sluices down her long legs to her feet, rippling around her high heels.

She turns, partially, her face three quarters and her body still angled away, to make sure Anya’s still watching her, and unclasps the fishnet from the garter belt.

Transfixed, Anya drains her drink, keeping eye contact over the rim of the glass.

The girl smiles. She’s wearing tight underwear, not a thong but it doesn’t cover her rear end entirely, either, her panties let the cheeks escape teasingly, exposing her from half her ass all the way down her thighs. For a minute more she dances in front of Anya, topless, nude except for slutty red panties, the fishnet and her high heels (and the garter belt, technically, but it’s no longer serving any practical function holding anything up), twisting her hips in circles and throwing her hair off her shoulders to fall, encircling her bare breasts. She lifts her hands high in the air as she sways, and on their descent slides them along her body, touching herself.

When she gets to the waistband of the panties she hooks her thumbs inside and shimmies them down her legs.

Then she straightens - Anya once more says, “Oh my god,” because the girl is naked, completely nude. She comes closer, and traces a finger along Anya’s jaw, taps her lips thoughtfully. She makes a decision and turns around, then straddles her lap again, backwards.

The chorus plays again, although Anya is distantly if at all aware. The girl has taken Anya’s hands and placed them on her upper thighs, so that Anya can feel her as she moves, grinding her bare body onto her thigh. As for the girl, her own hands are busy - Anya can see, as the girl leans back, into her, pressing her back to Anya’s chest. One arm hooks around Anya’s neck, the other plays with a nipple.

“Touch me,” the girl begs, as she undulates against her. Over her shoulder, Anya can see the tip of her clit, exposed by her legs spread wide, wet and shiny.

She can’t seem to make her hands move. She can’t seem to pull in enough air to her lungs. Her hands stay where they are, frozen on the girl’s upper thigh. If she’s really brave, maybe - maybe - Anya could venture her fingers wandering to her inner thigh, maybe touch her belly, but - no, not _that_ , that’s too far.

“No? I’ll have to do it myself.”

The song by now fades out and ends, but Anya remains where she is with a lap-full of writhing, beautiful blonde girl, her breasts softly bouncing as she cants her hips back and forth. The hand that’s on her breast slides over her torso, lower still until she buries it between her legs.

The girl moans and grinds herself harder against Anya as she circles her clit with her fingers.

Somehow, Anya finds the courage to move her hand up to the girl’s breast. She cups it, massages it, then rolls the nipple between two fingers, pinching it gently. Her skin is so _soft_. Anya’s always had a place in her heart for soft things.

She keens and works her fingers faster, evidently appreciative of Anya’s help, her hips still moving circles in Anya’s lap. Anya supposes if she had a penis this is exactly where she’d want to position a naked girl above it, to have her brushing it with her bare ass. Instead Anya has a heavy throbbing ache between her legs and a desire to throw this girl to the ground and ravage her, and the girl is not even making any contact with her at all and so it makes little physical sense to be so affected but every twist of her hips, grinding her ass onto Anya’s lap, has Anya trembling anyway.

The girl cries out, her hips jerking her body against Anya’s thigh where she rubs herself on it. Anya’s glad her coat is long, the girl’s leaving quite the wet spot on her, she can feel it through her skirt and experimentally tries shifting her thigh, rubbing back - and suddenly the girl pushes up, thrusting herself against her hand as she wriggles against Anya’s chest. Finally her hips still, and the girl exhales a shaky moan, tilting her head back and leaning on Anya’s shoulder.

It takes her a second to get off Anya’s lap. Anya is surprised the girl can walk in those heels after such an act but she’s surprisingly swift to recover, like she does this all the time. Because she probably does. “Did you get what you came here for?”

Anya, numbly, shakes her head. No, this is not what she came here for, it’s far more than what she came here for, how will she be able to look into the eyes of people who will ask her at her sister’s wedding, _and you, Anyusha, who’s the lucky man in your life?_

No man at all! No man ever again.

“Oh,” the girl says, not understanding. “I’m sorry. D-don’t worry about a tip, then. You can settle up with the front staff,” she says, and gathers her things.

Anya leaves the girl twice her asking price for her troubles and walks out of the room with just enough left for that second drink.

 


	5. (M) Denmark/Estonia - "idol/fan" (AU: humans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [icelilly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/pseuds/Icelilly), "DenEst, idol/fan" from that 30 cheesy AUs list. Using Christian for Denmark here, as it's what Lilly uses. And then I just. picked any last name that sounded Danish enough. If you don't like it you can pretend it's just the name he records under!

“When were you going to tell me you were gay?!”

“I’m not g- are those my notes?!”

“You always send me your notes when I’m not in class.”

Eduard snatched them out of Timo’s hand. “I send you an _electronic_ copy that I have _typed up_ so that you _don’t see any of these_ ,” he said, pointing to the margin notes which revealed in explicit detail all the salacious things Eduard would love to do with (or to) Christian Skov, former head of their varsity football team and theoretically a normal person turned worldwide electronic music sensation playing to crowds of hundreds of thousands and cruel, cruel thiever of Eduard’s heart.

“I didn’t want you finding out like this,” said Eduard with a pout.

Timo shrugged. “I don’t care, you’re still my friend.”

Eduard had a strong suspicion that Timo was just saying that so that he could continue to skip class and still get notes, regardless of how he really felt about the sexuality that Eduard himself still didn’t want to confront, not entirely. He would really just rather nobody know, because … because it was nobody’s concern but his! “Well… don’t tell anybody,” he said. “I mean it, Timo.”

“Okay, cool,” replied Timo. “Not til you’re ready, I get it.”

“No, not _ever!_ ”

“What happens if you actually find a guy you like?”

Eduard waved off the question in a manner suggesting he wanted Timo to _shut the hell up_ about it already. “Those are the bridges I’ll burn when I get to them. Besides. Don’t really like anybody.”

Timo grinned. “You like _hiiiiim,_ ” he said, gesturing to the margin notes.

“Oh my god you are so embarrassing,” said Eduard.

“You’ve got it ba-ad!” Timo sing-songed.

“Shut up!” Eduard grew more and more flustered. “I- I just like his music. Like _literally everybody else_ on the planet. It’s nothing!”

Timo laughed about it for another hour or so, through their lunch break, until Eduard’s next lecture at one and Timo’s chem lab at one-fifteen. And then, presumably, Timo forgot all about it. Or so Eduard thought, because no more mention was made of Christian Skov.

Not until his next tour brought him to their city.

Just right around Eduard’s birthday.

And Timo was a good friend, well-meaning, if a bit lacking in execution.

“This is perfect,” Timo had said.

\--

This is _horrible_ , thought Eduard.

He was on a date (though he admitted it didn’t really look like one, because it was a sports bar and they were both drinking beer and pretending to watch a game Eduard had no interest in - but Timo had said it was one and Christian himself - _Christian himself_ , Eduard could hardly _breathe_ \- kept blushing and smiling like he was on a damned date) with the incredible Christian. Christian, who was even more beautiful in person, if that were even possible - and kind and heart-warming and a little bit silly but that was perfectly okay.

And Eduard was so flummoxed that he had literally done everything to make this a perfectly awful date. If that’s what it was! Dribbled beer down his chin while attempting to consume it (evidently with _his new lips_ ). Accidentally almost choked on spicy buffalo wings (almost - _almost!_ \- worth it to have Christian’s arms around him - touching him, oh _gosh_ \- but presently Eduard wondered if he might’ve broken a lung). Couldn’t string two words together. Thank god Christian was talkative enough for the two of them and a few more combined.

_Christian_ , who said Timo was a friend of a friend of a friend of his (and that made them _fourth-generation friends_ , don’t think that escaped Eduard’s notice for one moment!). Christian, who said he’d do a favour for Timo anytime. (That was what Eduard was, a favour? Oh, hell, he didn’t mind.) Christian, who was so handsome and incredible in person that Eduard couldn’t possibly be mad at him. Christian Skov - _the_ Christian Skov.

“But really,” Christian had remarked, “it’s rare I get to go out with anybody. So much press these days! And nobody can really know that, uh… That, uh. That this. Is… a thing I want. So it’s. It’s just as much for me too.”

As much as Eduard would have loved to think he was brave enough to parade someone around on his arm, he knew the same was the case for him. Therefore, he wasn’t offended by secrecy - although he’d be lying if he tried to say that there existed no part of him that wanted to tell the world that he met Christian - that he went on a date with Christian!

But that was because _Christian. Skov_.

Still, Timo might have told him he wanted to play matchmaker this badly.

They had a nice night at the sports bar. The sports team did some thing with a ball - or maybe a puck, it didn’t really matter, because _Christian_ \- and Eduard had helped himself to another pint. Christian said he was paying after all, and a world-wide electronic music sensation probably had enough money not to worry about a pint of beer here and there.

Finally, Christian said, “C'mon, I’ll drive you home.”

Turned out Christian had a driver, but it wasn’t a limo at any rate, which would have been a little embarrassing. “No, the limo,” said Christian, “is only used for celebrations and big events.”

Only for big events! Tonight was a pretty big event to Eduard.

The driver, Christian introduced, was one of his long-time, closest friends, varsity football, chemistry lab partner, and this, and that, and they went way back. Eduard’s Timo, essentially, although this man was dour and Norwegian and not exactly a conversationalist.

“What’s more,” said Christian, as he rolled up the screen between front and back seats, “he’s one of the few that, uh. That knows a- about me, and about… a need for privacy.”

“Privacy,” echoed Eduard numbly.

Christian leaned in to kiss him on the lips.

Oh, wow, thought Eduard, oh, _wow_ , he had not thought - how astoundingly arousing kissing could be, but he found himself almost instantly squirming in his seat, as Christian - unseatbelted ( _that’s dangerous! - oh shut up, he doesn’t care_ ) - moved forward between his legs, one hand on his jaw, cupping it to kiss him more deeply, one hand on his thigh.

And even now, Eduard couldn’t force his mind to stop thinking, hey wow, this was not just some guy he was kissing, this was Christian. Skov! That guy whose music he had been listening to all year? That guy whose concert videos he watched for hours on youtube? That guy he dreamt about? It all seemed surreal, none of that made it seem like Christian was in actual fact a real live person, like this being he had imagined was someone altogether different from the person who had shimmied his way forward in the back seat, between Eduard’s legs, to hold him around the waist and clutch him closer. From the person who was _very much_ flesh and blood real, who was panting into Eduard’s mouth and rocking his groin against Eduard’s.

Christian was evidently enjoying himself, desperate for a bit of affection, judging by how he held Eduard close, moaning like he had been aching for this for months, a first bit of water to someone dying of thirst. He kissed sloppily, messy and wet and - well, kind of perfect, actually, since Eduard didn’t really know what he was doing but whatever it was, it had Christian, hot and heavy, thrusting against him, pressing him into the backseat.

And then Christian untucked Eduard’s shirt from his pants and slipped his hand up it, and Eduard hardly thought anything coherent after that.

Good idea, come to think of it. Christian wore a crisp black shirt with a red tie - very proper, very masculine - and with nervous fingers Eduard pulled it out from the waistband of his jeans and clumsily made his way up the front seam of buttons until he was really too distracted by Christian’s hot mouth to continue. He wormed a hand up Christian’s shirt and pressed it against his warm skin.

“God yes,” Christian breathed, “touch me, please -”

“Say, jokers,” said the driver brusquely. “We’re here.”

“You’re fuckin’ _kidding_ me,” Christian whined. “Why do you live so close. D'you really have to go?”

Eduard lived with his parents, who thought he was out with Timo right now, and had no clue he was even the least bit less than straight. Christian could be Jesus, he still wasn’t coming in! “I’ve got class in the morning,” he said, which was also true, but which he cared a lot less about, but which didn’t make him sound like a loser living with his parents who couldn’t bring a date home.

He couldn’t say he lived with his parents, that was just… well, he _couldn’t_.

Instantly, he regretted having spoken. Did he even know who he was hanging out with? Who he had, pressed against him? Only his _wet dream_ for the past year!

But hey! He’s got Introductory Prolog tomorrow morning! God, he was such an idiot.

“Yeah,” coughed Christian, “yeah, no, that’s… ’s important, you should …”

“I could stay a little longer,” Eduard reflected.

“Mind going around the block?” Christian asked the driver. “Maybe, a few times?”

“Yer not serious,” he replied.

When Christian didn’t respond, the driver sighed, his annoyance audible from the speaker system across the screen. “Fine, but y'owe me somethin’ good, like a raise, mayhap,” he grunted.

It gave Eduard another fifteen minutes to worship a body he had only before dreamed of.

Maybe he could get the notes from Timo.


	6. (E) Denmark/Estonia - "idol/fan" (AU: humans? gods? idk.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [icelilly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/pseuds/Icelilly), "DenEst, idol/fan" from that 30 cheesy AUs list. It spawned a second version of itself. This one I think is less true to the concept the 30-day-AU maker had in mind. Warning for blasphemy; I borrowed some bible verses.

_The lord is my shepherd, I shall not want -_

But want Eduard does, for the lord’s form carries immense beauty and strength, and since _his_ flag fell from their skies, Eduard is cared for, he is loved, and how could he not love in return?

Well, this is not the kind of love his beautiful god’s priests would have him feel.

Eduard doesn’t care. They’ll never know - _he’ll_ never know - Eduard himself is utterly unknown, a slight youth in the service of his beautiful blond god (the eternal service, he has committed his soul to his master, how he longs to worship _him_ properly, falling to _his_ knees in front of _him_ ).

Indeed he is alone now, alone in _his_ temple, having completed his duties and vespers services.

So he kneels at the pedestal of his master’s icon, a beautiful sculpted bust that despite its grandiosity bears no measure of worth to the _real thing_ \- nevertheless, Eduard bows again to kiss its feet, imagining they’re _his real body_.

There are no confessions in this religion, for the guilty man is put to work or death or both, and so Eduard is silent, but he can’t help himself - he sits in the back of the temple room and meditates for another hour, gazing upon the face of his god until he sees spots and shimmers in front of his eyes and his god is literally placed among the stars.

Master, he thinks, my wonderful master, and he realises as he slowly comes back to himself that inside his clothing he has stiffened and his erection is leaking onto his borrowed robe.

It is late… there is nobody around… the priests have been asleep for hours…

Eduard makes the decision impulsively before his self-control (ordinarily very strong, ah, but where his god is concerned, nothing can stop his utter devotion and love) can take ahold of him and banish the demon inside him that convinces him it’s a good idea to grasp his own hot flesh. He strokes himself as he gazes in helpless glory of the handsome face of his god, of _his_ magnificent body, wreathed in a silky, filmy robe - the sculptor they employed is so incredibly talented -  _his_ strength as apparent as Eduard is weak, as Eduard is powerless to the struggle between his greatest love and his deepest lust, combining the two in a way that would have the priests scandalised at his thoughts and horrified at his actions.

Especially here, inside the temple, a house of prayer, watching him pray, pray so _hard_ to his beloved god.

All too soon he is gasping, panting, his eyes transfixed to the statue’s, as he imagines servicing  _him_ happily, knelt between his god’s great legs, his head between his god’s massive thighs, his mouth on his god’s beautiful _cock_ \- perhaps as the prayers go his god makes him lie down in green pastures and physically takes him, Eduard’s legs spread and in the air, either side of his master’s broad shoulders as he pants his way to oblivion, as his master’s cock - dare he think it? He’s come this far already, he may as well blaspheme a little longer! - penetrates his wicked, mortal flesh, shoving _himself_ inside and enjoying the tightness of his body until yes, please, my lord, grant me such sacred essence -

Eduard’s orgasm comes upon him suddenly. He has the forethought of mind not to sully his robes completely (they are on loan from the temple masters) and holds his hand on the tip of his erection as he spills into it. He tries to stifle his cries but the moans escape him, and he does not turn his head from his god’s face.

 _He maketh me down to lie in pastures green_ \- ah, if only.


	7. (E) Norway/Estonia - "boss/employee shenanigans" (AU: humans)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [mmmmmaple](mmmmmaple.tumblr.com) for the following prompt: "Okay, alright BUT WHAT IF, like, Eestie's The Boss. And he has a secretary and it's [any Nordic, pick a Nordic, step right up and spin the Scandinavian wheel]. And, well, you know. There's only so much you can do to get your overly-invested boss' attention without resorting to EXTREME MEASURES."
> 
> Things we won't tell HR about. Wheel landed on Norway! I'm a big fan of Einar Steinsvik for Norway. So that is his name now.

He may not be conventionally attractive - he’s no model, not with those skinny little thighs - but by boss standards, von Bock is scores above the rest, thinks Einar. And he’s bored, because this line of work is so honestly _beneath him_  and he only took this job because he needed the money and there was nothing else available at the time. Now that he’s got a new job coming up, he can give his two weeks’ notice anytime…

But he might as well have a little fun first.

And he doesn’t need this reference, if it all goes badly. So why not?

But von Bock (“please, Eduard, you can just call me Eduard, really, I don’t mind!”) is either the prudest man he’s ever met or the dumbest man, and from his credentials and his entrepreneurship (a millionaire from a software startup by the time he was 26, it’s like out of a crap book) the latter can’t possibly be the case. Einar has tried being sweet, he’s tried being pleading, he’s tried coy, he’s tried beating around the bush, he’s tried inappropriate workplace humour, he’s tried slightly slutty, and none of them worked.

Although slightly slutty did get him a blush before von Bock’s eyes snapped up to his.

So he’ll go for the more direct route.

It’s past seven, everybody else has gone home, and so should Einar have as well, since reception only has hours between 8 and 4. But there’s a single light still on in von Bock’s office. The door is open. The light is faint; obviously von Bock had been hard at work when the sun was still up and has ignored the fact that the sun is now down, and the only illumination in the room comes now from the monitor. As Einar approaches he notices that von Bock’s hunched over the keys again.

His eyes must be so strained. His back must be so strained. There must be _something_ Einar can do about that.

Von Bock also has a headset on, but (as Einar knows) his last telecon was at 3. He has probably forgotten to take it off. Nevertheless it mutes enough noise that von Bock doesn’t hear the door to his office close. Doesn’t hear Einar drawing nearer until a pair of hands clap on his shoulders.

Von Bock jumps in his chair.

“Relax,” says Einar, “it’s only me.” He gives the muscles on von Bock’s shoulders a quick tense rub. “Really relax, would you?”

“I thought you went home hours ago,” von Bock says, not taking his eyes from the screen.

“Didn’t feel like it,” Einar replies. He doesn’t stop rubbing his boss’ shoulders. “There was - something else for me to work on.”

“Oh? What’s that? I don’t recall giving you anything.”

Von Bock is still _not getting it_ , and Einar’s getting very cold, which doesn’t suit his predicament well. He leans over his boss, too close, far into his personal space, and switches workspaces until he finds one that has no windows on it, so that the screen is blank, von Bock’s normal desktop background (a plain Ubuntu blue, default out-of-the-box settings. How _boring_ ).

Finally von Bock turns around, craning his neck back. He looks first at Einar’s mouth, hovering close to his own, then gasps at the rest of him. Because Einar is stark naked.

“You _could_ give me something,” Einar replies.

“I - I, but -”

“I’ve noticed you notice me,” says Einar. He moves aside the keyboard and perches his ass on the desk, right in front of von Bock still in the chair. Then he bends low to look von Bock in the eye. With a finger he tilts his boss’ face up to his and says against his lips, “We both want this,” before kissing him, hot and wet, with no pretense about what he wants.

Von Bock responds immediately before he pulls away. He claps a hand to his mouth, his expression stricken, and looks at the ground for a moment until his blush fades. Meanwhile, Einar spreads his legs, putting himself on grand display, an obvious invitation not even a software engineer could mistake.

But his boss sighs and removes his glasses, tosses them on the desk - they skitter away with the force of it and land on the floor - then pinches the bridge of his nose. “I can’t sleep with an employee!”

“Why not?” He doesn’t make mention of the fact that he’ll be quitting soon anyway. “I won’t tell HR. This company’s too small to have an HR person. And I’m obviously not looking for a promotion. Where would you put a chemist in this company?”

“But,” von Bock stammers, waving his hands demonstratively, “it’s the principle of the thing!”

Einar catches one of them and places it on his thigh. Von Bock goes immediately still. “Touch me,” he says, curling the fingers of his boss’ hand around his inner thigh, then moves it slowly up to his groin.

Von Bock swallows, but doesn’t remove his hand, and lets Einar move it where he likes. “I shouldn’t do this,” he murmurs, “I shouldn’t.”

“There’s no one around,” says Einar, as he moves von Bock’s hand up further, to curl around his cock, then coaxes it into an appropriate motion. God, this feels so good, he should have done this ages ago - slept with his boss in his boss’ _office_ after hours - he’s so excited he feels himself twitch _in his boss’ hands!_

“But - I - I _can’t_ ,” von Bock pleads, “because I shouldn’t do this, I’m the boss!”

In one fluid motion, Einar slips off the desk and into von Bock’s lap, grinding his naked ass into his boss’ pants. Von Bock gasps and his eyes slip shut.  _Can’t, shouldn’t?_ No, that’s a lie. “Do it,” Einar moans softly, and with his other hand, he draws the zipper on his boss’ fly down past the bulge between his boss’ legs. To finish the job and get his boss’ cock out, he needs his other hand, and so he lets go of his boss’. Call it inertia, call it interest - his boss - keeps his own hands where they are. Einar smiles.


	8. (E) Denmark/Estonia - "gags and dominance"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Icelilly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/pseuds/Icelilly) who asked "How did Tumblr not tell me you were doing this???? Anyways, since you did EstNor with the last prompt (bless you btw), would you mind doing EstIce or EstDen? I don't really have any prompts in mind other than it's set in modern times... Maybe they're discovering Est is much kinkier than he leads on to be? :)a Bonus if Est tops because I need it like air."
> 
> I too need it like air. Why even breathe unless Estonia can top sometime.

It starts like this:

“One of these days I’m going to have to shut you up.”

“Oh yeah?” That cocky stance, that smirk. “You’ll have to get pretty crafty with it!” Denmark is, after all, stronger than he is and also larger.

It’s been, like, some eight hundred years that he’s known the guy, and memories fade in and out because that’s an awful lot to take in, but he knows that tone. That’s a challenge. That’s definitely a challenge.

Which is why they are where they are now.

Denmark is face down on the bed, his hands tied behind his back - otherwise he’d be able to rip off the makeshift gag. It’s really just an old necktie - scrap of poor quality fabric, has a garish fat Santa on it, Finland’s idea of a gag gift, Estonia hasn’t got that much taste but c'mon, he’ll never wear _that_  - and Denmark moans _loud_ around it as Estonia pushes into him from behind. He’s warm, wet, and hot around Estonia’s dick, Estonia has only prepared him enough only so much that it wouldn’t hurt, but he didn’t say nothing about a little sting.

Denmark moans again around the gag. “Mmmfmmn _hhmsh!_ ”

“What’s that?” Estonia asks, as he pulls out and pushes in again. Denmark grunts. “I can’t quite make out what you’re saying.”

“Mm shhmt - hhn! - mmsh fuhkn hhrsh!”

Estonia grabs him by the hips this time. This is nice. He could get used to this. It’s not quite the peace and quiet that he’d hoped for but hey, they’ll work on it. “No, haven’t a clue what you’re trying to say,” he says, and he does a good job of making his voice sound perfectly impassive when his face is so hot he’s flushed to his collarbone and his thighs are trembling (which Denmark must be able to feel).

“Mmfh mmmd,” growls Denmark. The next thing out of his mouth is, as usual, indecipherable, but judging from the expression on Denmark’s face - his jaw tense, he must be biting down on that stupid tie, his eyes clenched - he’s enjoying this more than a little. He wriggles around in Estonia’s grasp, driving his cock into the bedsheets.

“Hey, now! That’ll leave a stain,” Estonia warns, though he’s far too turned on to care. Right on command, Denmark does it again, and harder, smearing himself over Estonia’s sheets, and Estonia can see the wet spot forming.

Well, he _has_  to follow through with a threat or Denmark will just walk all over him, won’t he?

So he hauls Denmark up to his knees in front of him, no easy task to do so while remaining so deep inside him. He thrusts in and up this time, and Denmark whines around the tie.

Estonia bites him roughly on the side of the throat, and Denmark goes lax against him, his thighs spread wide, his cock between them so hard the head is wet and dripping. Denmark moves as best he can to the tune of Estonia’s thrusts, but it must be difficult when Estonia still has such a firm grip on him, and there’s nothing Denmark can do, nowhere he can go, can only sit there in Estonia’s arms and take it. That’s always how Denmark has liked it, although the gag is new. (And a distinct improvement.) Denmark moans pathetically, his head thrown back and his hair plastered against his sweaty forehead.

“Phmmsh,” he groans.

“What’s that?” Estonia asks, one arm around his shoulders, the other drifting lower.

“Phhmmmsh!”

“Louder still,” pants Estonia, as his hips jerk into Denmark’s and it forces Denmark’s cock into Estonia’s fist - “Maybe if you scream!”

Denmark does and wide-eyed and bound, spills himself over the sheets in a wide arc.


	9. (E) Sweden/Finland, Estonia, Latvia, + Russia - "voyeurism"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Polarstern](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gelaecter/pseuds/Polarstern) who asked "how about voyeurism with with Russia + anybody else (anyone, more than one even, completely up to you) - also up to you whether he's the one being watched or if he's doing the watching and whether or not both parties are aware"
> 
> Set in the period between 1650 and 1700, when Sweden was a Badass. Does not actually feature any historical lessons or content.

It is a game!

It is a game, and Russia likes games.

Sweden is so big, and strong, and powerful these days. He has taken Finland into his house for quite some time now, but recently he has gotten even bigger and stronger. And now he has taken Estonia and Latvia - the nice parts. So those two have shared custody with Sweden and Poland and Lithuania and Holy Rome and also that annoying Teutonic-Knights-who-isn’t-really-Prussia-but-took-his-name.

And sometimes Russia gets to talk to Teutonic-Knights-who-isn’t-really-Prussia-but-took-his-name. Well! To be fair, it is Russia who talks and Teutonic-Knights-who-isn’t-really-Prussia-but-took-his-name who screams his replies from across the battlefields. Not a very nice boy. Ill-mannered. Russia hopes Sweden will teach him a thing or two.

But Teutonic-Knights-who-isn’t-really-Prussia-but-took-his-name - oh, let us just call him Prussia, maybe that will make him Russia’s friend at last - has said some interesting things about Sweden over the years. He doesn’t like Sweden, and that makes the things he says about Sweden very interesting. He says that he has taken Finland to his bed, and Russia does not understand quite what that means - what about his bed? Is it a nice bed? Soft, fluffy, well-constructed? Sweden looks like the type who could make a mean piece of furniture!

So Russia waits and sees.

It’s not his fault if his curiosity gets the better of him sometimes.

And when he gets too curious he steals away in the middle of the night on a little adventure of his own.

The magnanimous fortress where Sweden lives is easy to get to but hard to get into, and Russia has to put his own rags aside to disguise himself. Tonight he has selected a young Swedish handmaiden’s dress. The skirts feel funny around Russia’s legs, and it is cold, for Russia did not take the handmaiden’s bloomers. That would not have been very nice. Bad enough he took the rest of all her clothes.

Anyway, the castle is beautifully decorated, like the castles that Russia knows he has but is not permitted to visit until he doesn’t look like a tramp anymore and has started producing the things he knows his bosses want him to produce: high arched ceilings, great thick wooden doors - Russia slips inside one of these and finds himself in a beautifully furnished apartment, the walls painted a thick cream, great gilt picture frames with images of lord and ladies, beautifully dressed, cast in shadows, their faces gleaming in the low candlelight. Russia sees a lot of France’s influence here.

He touches one of the portraits gingerly, but his touch is not soft enough for the entire frame swings forward. For a moment he worries he’s broken it - not again! - but then he sees the passageway behind. How exciting! A secret passage! The servants must use these to get around. Well, he’s dressed as a servant, isn’t he? Then he belongs here! All the more reason he should pick up a little candle of his own and go exploring, which is exactly what he does.

He takes a few paces into the tunnel and finds it a labyrinth, paths stretching off this way and that. Before too long he is utterly lost and has no clue how he will get back to the cream room. That’s when he hears the voices.

“- please - more like that -”

Russia freezes. But they can’t have seen him, no matter who they are, right? It’s the middle of the night, even the servants are asleep! Nobody is in the hallway with him. They won’t find him.

Who are the people speaking? They sound familiar.

“Ungh, Sverige, that’s - there, yes -”

“Y'like it?”

“- it’s, it’s _good_ , _more_ -”

Slowly, slowly Russia creeps forward to the room with the noises, stepping gingerly so that the floorboards don’t creak and give him away. There’s even a keyhole where the light is shining through.

A voice suddenly cries out in what sounds like pain - Russia is worried, momentarily. He puts the candle down on the ground away from him, where he won’t step on it (what a shame if he were to burn down Sweden’s lovely home), and kneels down to peek through it.

There, in a room painted a lurid crimson (ah, red’s always been his favourite colour!), is a beautiful four-post bed, with a sheer silk canopy the colour of rich, deep chestnut. The bedsheets are a thick material, velvet possibly, quilted to keep out the cold. How beautiful luxurious it must be to lie in, how _warm_.

And on them is a pair, writhing and grinding together. Russia sucks in a breath.

One he recognises instantly, that is Sweden. Handsome muscles, dimpled at the small of his back, firm buttocks, lovely thick thighs and calves, strong as a racehorse, and his skin golden from the light of the candles in the room. He lies on top of another, smaller form. But, squinting, Russia realises he recognises him too, that’s Finland. Sweet darling Finland, his very own neighbour, smaller but plumper than Sweden, with a sweet round tummy, hair so fair it’s nearly white, and bright eyes and full lips.

Sweden presses down on Finland and shifts his hips from side to side, and Finland makes that strange pained sound again. He has his legs either side of Sweden’s hips, wrapped around Sweden’s waist.

And it’s now that Russia fully understands what’s happening, because they’re naked, and Finland is moaning (Sweden is silent but then again, Sweden is usually silent), and from time to time Sweden pauses to kiss Finland deeply on the mouth. An _open_ kiss. Russia spots a tongue.

He shouldn’t be watching this, he knows that now, but he’s here already. And he can’t exactly leave - he’s lost! And his candle is all the way over there!

And he’s hard, so. He might as well take care of _that_.

Sweden pushes Finland into that beautiful soft bed with the same rhythm that Russia - having rucked up his skirts - uses on himself. He wonders if Sweden is in fact really _taking_ Finland in the way that Russia knows people can take each other, or if they’re just making each other’s private parts touch. Either way, he thinks, panting softly to himself, that sounds nice, to do it with someone. Upon someone. To someone? He wonders if Finland really has a choice. Sometimes Russia doesn’t have a choice in the kinds of things he does, when his bosses tell him that he’s been conquered yet again.

Finland moans again. “Yes, there - that’s it, like that - _aah_ \- do it, harder!”

Well, if Finland _doesn’t_  have a choice, he certainly looks like he’s making the best of a bad situation. Better than Russia usually makes of it.

Or maybe Sweden’s just very good with his prick. Good enough to forget these things. That thought tantalises Russia more than a little bit, and formerly he had thought about it with him in Sweden’s position - Finland squirming delightfully under him, begging _him_ for more, red-faced and moaning for _him_  - but now that he thinks of it…

Sweden atop him, and he hadn’t wanted this because how insulting again to be conquered, but his hot flesh is between Russia’s thighs and he moves it in and out from between them, or maybe his prick is actually touching Russia’s - how thrilling! - and as it does Sweden caresses Russia’s hair, peels it back from his forehead as he does with Finland now and murmurs to Russia, “’S good? Y'like it?”

Yes, he breathes, yes, it’s good, yes I like it, yes, god, _take me_ \- and he comes all over the inside of that poor handmaiden’s dress.

Inside, Finland and Sweden are still at it - Sweden must have the stamina of a _horse_ , Russia thinks in a daze. He watches until they finish. He throbs a bit between his thighs but he won’t touch himself again, he’s much too sensitive, and this gives him something to think about.

He thinks about it a lot, in the coming months and years. Because Sweden is busy, with his big powerful ally France - he has gone ahead and helped himself to half the Baltic, after all.

So Russia goes back inside. It’s a game, to see how easy he can do it. It’s a game, to see how many people whose clothes he can steal, to gain access to the castle. It’s a game, to figure out the servants’ hallways rather intimately. It’s a game to find his way through the castle to the room where Sweden takes his dominions.

And it’s a game to watch him play with his prizes without anybody knowing he’s there. A great, wonderful game.

He watches Sweden peel off Estonia’s clothing and throw it to the floor, before he coaxes Estonia into bed - the same bed where Sweden had Estonia’s own close friend Finland! - murmurs something low and soft and kisses Estonia’s graceful neck until Estonia is shifting and panting where he sits on the bed. He watches as Sweden takes the oil and coats his fingers in it, then sticks them inside Estonia, stretching him carefully until Estonia is riding them happily, his prick hard. He watches Estonia ride Sweden to completion - it must be good, Sweden _must_ be good at this because Estonia holds grudges like no other and doesn’t like being conquered (for someone who’s so very good at it).

But no, Estonia seems to have forgotten it all, groaning softly as he lifts himself up and down Sweden’s great prick, his head tossed back, shaking with pleasure.

And Latvia, Russia watches as Sweden is so careful with Latvia, who trembles at first but warms up readily. Sweden does not fuck Latvia proper, but he holds him close and keeps him warm under the covers, and touches him gently like he’s really something special instead of just pretty Riga and a bunch of river-logged peasant villages.

Yes, the one with Latvia really hurts, because Sweden gets them underneath the covers for that one. That night it’s very cold, so it makes sense that there’s extra candles out and it makes sense that they get into bed. But then Russia can’t see exactly what’s happening, and that’s both more erotic and ten times worse! His mind has to fill in the details for him, so it does: he pictures Latvia’s short skinny little legs tangled up with Sweden’s long slender ones, their hips pressed together, Sweden’s hand caressing the small of Latvia’s back, down to the curve of his ass, his other arm around Latvia’s shoulders, crushing him close to Sweden’s chest…

Russia aches to be held like that, and when he comes watching them that night he feels hollow and unsatisfied. That night, he loses the game.


	10. (M) Denmark/Estonia - "get-together"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [internetgeek](internetgeek.tumblr.com) who asked "um maybe it starts as just stupid jokes that one thinks it wouldn't lead to anything and ends up "well that just happened. again please." I know it's terrible [sighs]" from which I gleaned was a wish for get-together fic of a sort!

The first few times, it’s the drink that does it. Late one night, bad conference, crap coffee, crappier food, hotel is too expensive for small rooms - but hey, there’s a _minibar_  and their bosses are paying for it!

So they have a bit to drink, which for the two of them, isn’t nearly enough. So Denmark pops out to the store for more, leaving Estonia all alone in Denmark’s hotel room with a bit of a buzz.

 _What am I doing here_ , thinks Estonia blurrily, _I should just leave_. But he doesn’t, and dozes off entangled in Denmark’s sheets until Denmark returns with more alcohol.

“Heyyy, wakey wakey,” Denmark prompts, to the sloshing sound of liquid in a glass bottle, and Estonia opens his eyes to find that Denmark’s gone and bought the _good stuff_. Well, he must want Estonia around if he’s splurged, right?

But they probably shouldn’t finish the bottle.

And they probably shouldn’t stick their hands down each other’s pants…

Whatever, it’s a single night, and Estonia ought to allow himself a little fun sometimes - he never does in these days of austerity measures! - and anyway it’s been easily two hundred years since Denmark was half a threat to anyone. He’s really just a puppy now. An exuberant, overeager, comes-like-he’s-a-teenager, puppy, whose enthusiasm more than makes up for any prowess (not that Estonia can contest to any himself).

And then there’s the next conference, and the coffee is worse, and what do you add to coffee to make it palatable? That’s right, alcohol! And Estonia’s room has the better view this time, and it’s Denmark’s flask of booze, so it’s only right that he invites him in.

What happens next on the bed, well, that’s just all in good fun. No need for anything more.

And then there’s the working group on political measures in a technological age, and Denmark cracks terrible, awful jokes about hard drives and floppy disks (Denmark, darling, nobody even uses those anymore) that have everybody else groaning about how stupid these jokes are and what is Denmark doing here anyway, but call it the boredom of the joint, Estonia is in stitches snickering into his palm as he tries to keep what little composure Denmark has utterly blown out of the water. After the first twenty minutes, he’s certain Denmark’s doing it on purpose.

So really, when Denmark invites him out to dinner, and then back to his room for afters, it’s because he’s enjoyed himself, and it’s just fun.

The next time, just fun.

The time after that, just fun.

In fact, it isn’t until Denmark is kissing up his neck, their bodies intertwined beneath the thick covers of the bed, gloriously naked, access to all of Denmark’s warm skin, his fingers gripping Denmark’s shoulder to keep him close, messing up Denmark’s already messy hair, with the palms of Denmark’s hands smoothing over his back, caressing him, stroking him, Denmark’s arms enveloping him in a sunny warmth that has less to do with the covers and the dry heat of this particular country’s climate, and more to do with the gentle way Denmark brings their cocks together, how he rocks his hips into Estonia’s like he wants to melt them together through the very friction alone, and how he knows this body so well, because it must be the twentieth time they’ve done this, twenty? thirty? Estonia has lost count, Estonia can’t remember numbers when Denmark kisses him deep and moans helplessly against his lips -

\- that Estonia truly realises that it is no longer _just_  fun.


	11. (E) Hungary/Belgium/Ukraine - "foodplay"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Anonymous who asked "HunBelgUkr polyship. Maybe some food play with chocolate and sweets?"

This table is set beautifully: an old fashioned girls’ tea party, as it begun, but it has since derailed mostly into a sweets fest, which is Belgium’s fault entirely although neither Ukraine nor Hungary did much to stop her, and Belgium’s stomach is growling fiercely just looking at it, but Hungary hasn’t gotten back yet with the tea.

And it would be rude to start without her, which means Belgium needs some sort of distraction to take her mind off the food. The tray of sliced sweet fruits, the macarons, the caramels, the toffee, the chocolate honey cake with the dark chocolate ganache, the lemon poppyseed madeleines dipped in orange glaze, tiny squares wrapped in fondant, buttercream-topped cupcakes, the sugar cookies - the sugar cookies! - just as Belgium is taking stock of everything on the table, that’s when Ukraine comes in from the kitchen, carrying two platters, one of beautifully arranged cured meats, cheeses, lox, and olives, and one of finger sandwiches - cream cheese and cucumber, cold chicken and radish, and egg salad with dill.

Belgium starts salivating.

“You must be warm,” says Belgium to Ukraine.

“Oh, no dear, it’s alright,” she coos.

“But the kitchen, you’ve been slaving away all day in it. and the fan isn’t very good. You don’t need the apron anymore. Here.” She jumps out of her chair and skirts around Ukraine to undo the bow at Ukraine’s back. Ukraine puts the platter on the table, bending over. “There, now, isn’t that better already?”

She slips the neck strap over Ukraine’s head. It musses up her hair a bit. Then she pushes the apron to the ground. But Ukraine is pressed up against the table, between it and Belgium, and there isn’t much room for Belgium’s hand - what a shame - so her fingers trail lightly all down Ukraine’s front, from neck to breast to waist to thigh, on the pretence of assisting with apron removal.

The apron finally hits the floor, and kicks up a dust cloud of flour.

“Ah,” Ukraine says tremulously, “th-thank you, Belgium.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Belgium replies, trying to be sweet but her voice is huskier than normal, “I’m not done.” The buttons on Ukraine’s blouse are cooperating with her and spring free from the buttonholes the second her fingers hit them. Finally free, Ukraine’s breasts spill forward, barely contained by her bra. “You need one that fits you better,” says Belgium, tracing around the functional lace, “that mustn’t be comfortable for you.”

She is already pulling the shirt free from Ukraine’s waist where it is tucked in at the pants, quickly abandoning the pretense with which this began.

“Ah, y-yes, I suppose it isn’t,” replies Ukraine.

“Here, I’ll help.” So helpful! Belgium makes short work of the triplicate set hook and eye at Ukraine’s back and slides the straps off her shoulders. The bra falls to the table on top of a dinner plate, where Belgium usually sits. What a fantastic idea! Ukraine for dinner. Belgium licks her lips.

“And these look restraining too,” she says, talking about the pants now. The button springs free and she pulls the fly down blind, pressed as she is against Ukraine’s naked back. Ukraine is bent fully forward over the table now, her hands propping her up awkwardly in the only free space (because trust Ukraine to set a table - it is a feast for three but there is hardly a square inch left on the tablecloth that doesn’t have a saucer of honeyed medjool dates, or a dish of liquorice, or jelly beans, or a basket of sweet buns, or some manner of culinary others, to go around the cakes). As Belgium works the pants off her hips - they are so tight, Ukraine’s hips are so lovely and large - Ukraine moans quietly.

Her pants fall to the ground, and her underwear is next, and then Ukraine is naked and bent over a table full of delicious food.

“Spread your legs for me, Ukraine dear?” asks Belgium breathlessly, and Ukraine does, as Belgium bends over her, kneeling between her legs. The first taste is the best - Belgium is so very hungry! - she laps greedily between Ukraine’s thighs, dancing her tongue from one set of lips to another. Ukraine is shaking and moaning, so Belgium doesn’t see the point in teasing her. She rolls her tongue and fits it just inside Ukraine’s hole, rubbing it along the sides as she can.

“Aah,” Ukraine moans, “that’s - ahh _ngh_ , yes, Belgium, yes!” She shifts herself lower until her nipples - from what Belgium can see past those glorious hips - are almost touching the icing on the chocolate honey cake, but bending lower means Belgium has more access and can drive her tongue in deeper, and that’s so clearly what Ukraine craves and needs right now that she mustn’t even be thinking about the rest of her body in comparison to the hot need between her legs.

Before too long she has Ukraine shifting back and forth, fucking her mouth as best she can. The food is all over Ukraine’s torso by this point, utterly ignored, the dark chocolate ganache has smeared all over her breasts and her stomach is covered in dusted icing sugar, honey, and cookie crumbs. Belgium’s favourite. She grins, excited.

The door opens. Hungary looks at Ukraine, then at Belgium, then at Ukraine again, and then at the table. She doesn’t bat an eyelash. “You started without me,” she says, with a mock-pout, and tosses the box of loose leaf tea on the sofa. It’s clearly not required yet.

“There’s still time for a second course,” Belgium says. She gets up. Ukraine gets up too, her face bright red, and her torso smeared with desserts and food. “Don’t go too far,” Belgium says.

“I am all filthy,” says Ukraine sadly, “and the food -”

“Won’t go to waste, if you move it aside and lay down on the table!” finishes Belgium cheerily. Hungary is smiling and has already taken off her top. Her skirt quickly follows.

Ukraine does exactly as Belgium asks - the food is stacked upon plates and tea cups to make room for her body, and she lies upon the tablecloth like the main course she is. Belgium can hardly wait until she’s settled before she dives in again, attacking her with the hunger she feels.

The chocolate is so good licked off her stomach, and that much better sucked off her nipples! How could food in any normal form compare, she wonders, for this is heavenly, and as she swirls her tongue around, as it fills her mouth, she reaches over and grabs the spoon of mascarpone cream out of its dish, to daub it liberally on Ukraine’s skin. More, she’ll have more for her mouth.

“Raspberry sauce too,” says Hungary, who straddles Ukraine’s face - “that would taste good - mmh, yes, Ukraine darling, like that.”

An excellent idea! Belgium grabs the tiny pitcher, containing a tart sauce made of red raspberries, simmered with a pinch of brown sugar and strained through cheesecloth, all of the flavour, none of the seeds, and drizzles it over Ukraine’s other breast. Then, for the first one is clean by now, she moves to it and licks in broad, long stripes, from the base of the beautiful curve to the apex. Ukraine squirms beneath her, moaning between Hungary’s legs, and to keep her still Belgium gets one hand on her hips and straddles her thigh, pinning it down.

But Ukraine begs to be touched. “Please,” she whines, as she tongues at Hungary’s clit, and tugs at Belgium’s wrist, dragging Belgium’s hand along her body, painting a trail of chocolate down her stomach, and coaxing two of Belgium’s fingers inside her. “It’s impolite not to finish everything on your plate.”


	12. (E) Lithuania/Estonia - "keeping quiet in bed"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Icelilly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/pseuds/Icelilly), who asked, "Okay, okay, I know you've already done one for me. But I forgot I was craving EstLiet earlier this week. So how about vacation time with the Baltics? We have Estonia and Lithuania taking turns (nothing heavy, I imagine these two are very vanilla with each other) and trying desperately not to wake Latvia up in the next room. They kind of try to play it off as if nothing happened but Lat is a little shit and knows what went down last night."
> 
> beautiful :')

The fact that there are three of them but only two tents has not escaped Latvia’s notice, but Lithuania is pretty sure he’s convinced their younger not-quite-brother that it’s simply because Estonia couldn’t find his own. All that space in his basement, he never has time to organise it. And besides, he doesn’t go camping all that much anymore, and it would have been difficult to lug that big old tent all the way to the beautiful national parks in the southern parts of Lithuania’s home, where they have set up camp now.

But in order to keep up these appearances, they really have to -

“Be quiet,” whispers Lithuania, “or he’ll hear you!”

“Easy for _you_ to say,” Estonia sighs, just quiet enough not to be an outright moan.

“You think I don’t like this?” Lithuania pushes into him languorously. Estonia is tight and hot and so _lovely_ around his cock.

Estonia shudders and writhes on the sleeping bag they’re sharing. His ankles are crossed around Lithuania’s waist, and his legs are shaking. “Well _you’ve_ always been better at being quiet - _aah!_ ”

“Shh,” Lithuania says again, and presses his hand to Estonia’s mouth as he thrusts in again. Estonia murmurs a reply. His pace is slow to start, always, but it’s the slow burn of taking that Estonia likes, being caressed. There’s a slight subtle nod to dominance in the way he is pinned to the ground, but nothing more restrictive. Lithuania holds him there by the hips firmly. He has never noticed that Estonia is a particularly loud lover until he’s trying expressly to be silent, and not succeeding at it.

Another heavy sigh. Estonia cants his hips and rocks them back, shifting up to admit Lithuania better into him, a smoother slide. It takes Lithuania in too far and completely by accident - “Aaah!” Estonia cries, muffled by Lithuania’s hand, as he tightens around Lithuania, “Yes, oh, there!”

They really should be quiet, thinks Lithuania as an afterthought, but says nothing about it. Estonia’s plaintive whines are hopelessly erotic and Lithuania faces his own moments of unrestraint, trying to calm himself down when his body screams at him to _speed up_. His hips jerk into Estonia’s helplessly, angled to press where Estonia likes it. “O-oh, mmm,” Estonia moans out a shaky sob of a plea, licking between the fingers of Lithuania’s hand.

As the minutes pass by his composure and attention and focus unravel completely, and tie into instead the beat of Estonia’s heart, the press of his pulse. “Yes - yes -” the sound of his soft gasps. Estonia’s hands are everywhere, pulling him close, clutching at him, gripping his biceps, his waist, his ass, wherever Estonia can reach, his nails digging into the flesh. “Please,” Estonia whispers, “closer, more!” This is the wondrous warm sanctity of this kind of pleasure, trust and love and respect all rolled into one, with a side of heavy addictive need, hanging low and thick in the air around them and between them. Their tent is rife with it.

He can’t keep his lips off Estonia for long, open kisses fusing their lips together, Lithuania mouthing at Estonia’s throat, licking his cheek, all the while possessive but loving, utterly loving, and unguarded, for Lithuania has dropped the passive guards he holds in place for just about everyone outside of his lovers, after enough time that fucking has become screwing has become having sex has become sweet glorious intimacy. The terms for it soften and melt like he does, as acting so perennially sweet to everyone keeps him distant in the end.

Estonia clutches them close and groans as he spills against Lithuania’s stomach and tightens around him. There is no distance between them anymore.

\--

(omake:

At breakfast, Lithuania offers Latvia a few of what he’s got frying in the pan. “No, thank you,” says Latvia, and rifles through his pack for a tin of sprats and a loaf of dark rye bread.

“Too heavy for breakfast?” asks Estonia.

“Too greasy. And I don’t think any of us need more sausage.” He cracks open the tin and gives them a sharp smile.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> stupid joke is stupid I AM SORRY


	13. (E) Russia/Canada - "rimming"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [true-north-strong](true-north-strong.tumblr.com). "Whispers ruscan + rimming?"
> 
> Mouseover where Russia loses his command of other languages.

“You’re kidding me,” says Canada.

He tries shaking the bottle again, hoping gravity will help. No such luck. The lubricant makes a sad little ‘spoot’ noise. Empty. Definitely empty. “I told you to get more! Didn’t I tell you?”

“I forgot about it, okay?” says Russia defensively.

“You didn’t forget about it,” Canada says. “I bet you just chickened out of buying it.”

Russia looks positively aghast at the prospect “I didn’t!” he whines. “The duty free shop was closed!!”

“And you couldn’t’ve bought any at home.”

“It looks weird these days if I buy it at home,” Russia mutters, blushing. “People might think I’m using it for … _things_.”

“For gay sex. The gay sex that you are definitely having. With me. A man. And you are also a man,” Canada says flatly. “We are men, having sex.”

“Sh-shut up!” Russia is beet red, now, flapping his hands to shush Canada. “Stop saying that! It’s embarrassing. You’re so embarrassing!”

They are literally alone, thinks Canada. If Russia can’t say these things with only him in the room - welll, he probably can’t admit it to himself. Then again, backdoor hidden shenanigans suit Canada well personally, and while he loves to tout a position he doesn’t actually occupy, Russia can easily tell him that these days, Canada never does anything about anyone’s bosses awful proclamations - least of all Russia’s - so Canada can’t claim much moral high ground, in the end.

“Well,” he decides, throwing the bottle in the garbage bin, “that’s that, I guess.”

“Really?” asks Russia, and he looks very sad. “So… we can’t?”

“You don’t have anything. I’m not going to use hand lotion again.” His asshole smelled like rose and patchouli for days. No, if he’s good enough to fuck he’s good enough to spend the money on. “And you’re leaving in -” Canada checks his watch - “about an hour.”

Russia pouts and frowns. “I did not come all this way for a simple blowjob. I could just remove a rib and do that myself.”

Okay, that’s - _not_ going there, thinks Canada. “No, you came all this way for a shitty boring conference, and I’m just an added bonus.” It’s not Canada’s fault Russia’s bosses want to keep a firm hold on him and don’t let him out to play, fearful of what he’ll get up to if they don’t watch him all the damn time.

Russia looks uncomfortable and squirms where he sits on the bed. “I’ll use the hand lotion, then,” he says quietly.

This is interesting. They don’t do it like _this_ often. Or … at all, really.

“For what? To jack off?” Now he’s just being obtuse. But it’s kind of really fun to make Russia squirm.

“No!” Russia says petulantly. “To - _you know!_ ”

“Oh, to fuck you, in the ass? With my penis? Is that what you want me to do with the lotion?”

Red-faced and his arms crossed over his naked chest like the massive baby he really is, Russia says, “If you don’t shut up we won’t do this at all!”

“Alright,” Canada says, “I’ll shut up. We’ll do this.” He goes and gets the lotion from the bathroom. (Lucky Russia, this hotel’s freebies just smell like baby powder.) Then he drops it on the bedspread beside Russia. “On your knees,” he says, “face the headboard.”

Russia complies. Canada comes up behind him on the bed and touches the inside of his thighs. “Spread these.”

Russia’s breath hitches but once more, he complies. Canada pours out a squirt of the lotion on his fingertips and rubs them so that they’re warm, then slides his touch up Russia’s thigh until it hits him behind his balls. Then slides it further back to his hole.

“Aaah,” Russia moans.

“This what you wanted?” murmurs Canada.

Russia leans forward more, spreads his legs more. “Something like it… yes.”

Canada massages it gently, probing around with his fingers, watching the reaction in Russia’s shoulders as they twitch, watching the shiver run down his back. “Stop playing with me,” groans Russia.

“But it’s so much fun,” Canada says.

“We haven’t the time,” he pants. So Canada obliges him with a single digit, slipped inside to his second knuckle. It has Russia arching and gripping the headboard so hard his arms shake. He spreads his thighs further and cants his hips back, fucking himself on Canada’s finger slowly. “That’s nothing,” he says, “you think I can’t handle any more than that?”

“Didn’t realise you’d done this before,” says Canada, idly fingering him, not increasing his pace.

Russia grunts. “Not with you.”

“Oh? With who then?” Canada slips a second finger inside him and drives the two together upwards, twisting and shifting. Russia groans low. “I hope it isn’t someone who’s got larger fingers. A guy could get -” and here he curls his fingers, cruelly, stroking over Russia’s prostate. Russia keens, loud and long, and clenches involuntarily on Canada’s fingers. “Sensitive.”

“Take those out and fuck me, or I swear I’ll declare war,” Russia hisses. He looks back at Canada and gives him the angriest look Canada’s ever seen him give, though the heat of it is tempered since he’s at the same time so turned on his eyes have lost all their colour in favour of dilated black, and his lip is bitten bright red with failed attempts at being quiet. He looks beautiful like this, torn and wrecked.

But a threat is a threat, so he removes his fingers. “Scoot your legs back and bend over,” he says. Russia obeys, and once he’s properly distracted - he’s got one hand on his cock, already playing with himself, waiting for Canada to push in - he spreads Russia wider with his hands. Then, a thought occurs to him.

“Aagh,” Russia says, “I thought I told you to stop playing with me. And you don’t need quite so much lotion! You will waste it.”

“Mmm,” he says, for Canada’s mouth is busy - his tongue laves over Russia’s ass, stroking up, then down, dipping inside teasingly - it’s probably easy for Russia to mistake it.

“ _Gospodi_ ,” Russia moans, “ _eto ne_  - that is not your fingers.”

“Mm-mmm,” Canada replies.

“Th-that - is -”

Canada backs up a bit. “It’s what? Filthy?”

“ _Potryasayushchiy_ ,” breathes Russia.

So he leans in again and continues, his hands spreading Russia far apart enough that he can get his tongue near Russia’s hole. After his tongue gets tired of up-and-down, he switches it up, traces around the hole, and when he gets tired of _that_ , minutes later, he flicks the tip of it inside.

Russia’s massive thighs are trembling by this point, and no breath of air he takes in or exhales is silent, the constant stream of moan pierced occasionally with begging. He grips onto the headboard of the hotel bed with all of one forearm, clinging to it for support as he jacks himself off frantically.

This was worth it just for _this._ Canada lets go and backs up. “Don’t stop, please, don’t stop!” Russia whines. “God, please, never stop!”

He swats Russia’s ass playfully. “I’m not going anywhere,” he says, and grabs the hand lotion. He squirts the last of the tiny travel bottle into his hands, massages it briefly onto his cock, and lines himself up.

Russia _sobs_ as he enters him. “Better than whoever else it was?” Canada teases, but Russia is barely listening to him and probably hardly hears him over the sound of his own moaning. He’s gloriously tight, either from being played with so long or he really did enjoy that, but in any case, he’s a hot tight vise around Canada’s cock and Canada can’t promise much stamina like this, with Russia pushing back to meet every thrust. “Do you even remember their name?” Canada continues. “Do you even remember your own?”

Russia whines and comes into his fist. Canada keeps fucking him, gripping his hips hard and thrusting until he comes.

After they’ve had a moment to catch their breath, Russia, who has collapsed on the headboard, says hoarsely, “So - it will be same time next conference?”

“ _I’ll_ bring the lube,” Canada replies dryly.


	14. (E) France/Estonia - "revolutionary singing in bed"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Mixu](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixu/pseuds/Mixu) who asked "Hello~ Maybe FraEst and Est's 'revolutionary singing voice' that sparks something? I'm sorry I know this is a really rare pair and it was the first prompt from the top of my head ^^""

One of the reasons France was interested in him to begin with was the voice. France appreciates a lot of things. He appreciates a fine body, he appreciates fine things in life, and he appreciates talent.

And Estonia is talented when it comes to singing. Very talented.

He made himself a playlist for the car, when he’s travelling in his own country and nobody else is with him. At first it was because France has diverse musical tastes - he has diverse  _everything_  tastes. But truly, he could listen to the choir for ages, and when he discovered that one of the soloists with that amazing range is in fact a fellow - ah - _countryman_ , he was delighted and elated.

But more so… no one can listen to this. No one can know. It’s amazing France figured it out. He takes the long road home simply to hear Estonia’s voice take him to the end of the song.

And then it works into his fantasies - as everything always does.

 _Sing for me, my angel_  he hears, one night, when he’s alone and tired and touching oneself puts anyone to sleep. Such a melodramatic musical, but captivating. The way Christine’s voice allures that poor torn creature in the darkness, the only shaft of light in the abyss. The frisson of fear in her voice - don’t be scared, he means you no harm, probably - how can he not love her?

How can he not love him?

She becomes his muse - he becomes France’s obsession.

Nobody would understand - strange little country with his strange little ways, some say, but France doesn’t care. They are all strange little countries with their strange little ways, are they not?

And he doesn’t care so much for an interaction between their mores as he does for the higher level interaction of appreciation of aesthetic, of beauty.

Yes, with many things with France, it quickly becomes carnal. He longs for that voice, he wants it. Not to trap it and cage it and make it his own, but a different kind of possession entirely, just as compulsive - he will have it between his sheets, and there Estonia will sing for him, truly for him, truly alone.

So France makes his offer in a low, husky voice after a meeting one day. _Sleep with me_ , he finally says to Estonia. Estonia looks at him - looks down at his lips - blushes - and nods.

Estonia is not inexperienced, but just about everybody is inexperienced in comparison to France, and he pulls out all the stops with Estonia.

It begins slow. Estonia seems shy, so France begins with touch, slow and soft and gentle, tickling on the skin. This sensitivises the skin. He trails his fingertips softly up and down Estonia’s arm, down to the hands, along his neck, his jaw, traces his lips fondly. Estonia cannot keep eye contact for very long and closes his eyes, but parts his lips and lets France do the things he does best. Touches like these have Estonia shivering and shaking before France has even relieved him of his clothing. He moves to the buttons slowly, one, by aching one, and with every one he pulls free from the shirt it exposes more skin, which France greedily takes in, first with his eyes, then with his fingers. Splayed fingers and palms, soft like velvet, caressing Estonia’s skinny chest, his bony shoulders.

That beautiful slender throat.

He peels off the shirt from Estonia’s shoulders and lets it cascade halfway down his biceps before he moves in closer to his neck. He holds his lips there, waiting, breathing, his hand poised at Estonia’s waist, but not touching. After all that time spent stroking him lightly, merely the presumption of touch, but no physical touch at all, still tingles - this France knows.

Let him play with the proprioception awhile longer. A moment passes, and he does nothing.

He waits, until Estonia gasps in a breath, for after minutes spent shallowly breathing he must grow lightheaded, and finally, finally, he nuzzles the skin with his nose, and puts his hand on Estonia’s bare waist. The gasp erupts mid-way into a moan and Estonia crumples against him, arching, and falls into France’s arms completely, helpless to sensation. Or so he thinks, for he has no idea yet what to be helpless to sensation really feels like. Now France really gets started.

Deftly he flicks open the button at Estonia’s waist with the practiced flick of the fingers that only someone who’s done this many times can bestow. Thin little whip of a thing, the pants are so loose on him. France must remind him about tailors sometime. Later, later. He slides the zipper down, holding the material up and away so that he touches as little of Estonia’s cock as possible - later.

Later.

“Please,” gasps Estonia.

“Patience,” murmurs France against his lips, but does not kiss them, as much as he wants to. He can’t silence that voice; how criminal. He nudges forward, at which insistence Estonia lies back on the bed, prone and still entangled in the sleeves of his shirt at his elbows. The pants however… France puts his fingers in the waistband, just inside, and at this merest encouragement, Estonia lifts his hips so France can tug the pants off his body and let them fall to the ground. He is naked but for the shirt - but clearly not as shy anymore as he scoots up the bed greedily, enthusiastically.

France bends between them - and he’s still entirely dressed, with Estonia stripped and vulnerable in front of him - and licks at the pale sensitive skin of his inner thighs. Estonia trembles and whimpers, and lets his legs fall open in obvious invitation. France meanders around - he takes his time, for anything worth doing is worth doing correctly, though he’s been rock hard himself since they began. By the time he gets to Estonia’s groin, Estonia’s every breath is a shallow needy moan, and his hips rock back and forth, pressing his cock into the air like a plea of its own.

“Aah,” he croons softly into the night, “aah, aaah -”

Ah, ah, ah! If he wants somehing he shall have to ask for it. Beg for it. Sing for his supper. _Sing for me, my angel!_  Between his own legs, he positively throbs.

“Would you like this?” France breathes, hot air over the head of his cock.

“ _Please_ ,” Estonia groans low.

“A bit louder, if you will,” France says. An inch closer and his lips would be in full contact with Estonia’s flesh but tactically, he keeps his distance, and as Estonia watches him dance around his cock like this, unable to pull his gaze away, he must be hyperaware of the distance himself. A little closer, just a little closer, but he will not, until Estonia asks for it. “And you ought to be specific,” he adds. He smiles slowly, to let Estonia know it’s a game, only a game, he teases because it’s fun.

And also because Estonia properly teased is frantic and outside his mind with lust. Shyness? What is that? One cannot be shy in a recital.

“K-kiss me,” Estonia groans, “touch me - a-ah, _lick me_ , anything - do anything, please, do something!”

He licks a single stripe up, from base to tip, and Estonia shudders and falls back into the pillows. None of that. France will be _watched_ , and he will be _praised_ , and _that voice_  will do it. “But if I do what you like, how shall I know that you like it? I will be busy,” France argues. And arguing means he isn’t using his mouth for anything else. “You shall have to let me know you’re enjoying it.”

Estonia props himself back up on his elbows. “You doubt me?” he asks, gesturing to his leaking cock. “You doubt that?”

“It’s nice to be appreciated,” France says, falsely casual. “ _I_  like to be appreciated - ah - vocally.” And then he licks into the head of it, sucking the wet that’s gathered there onto his tongue and into his mouth. Estonia moans, but mid-moan France plunges down the rest of the way and it turns into a sharp loud cry.

“Ah! Yes!” Estonia calls out, to the rhythm of France’s head bobbing up and down on him. Starting slowly, growing quicker. “Y-yes, oh, yes, yes, please - yes - that’s - ah - aa-ah -” his hips jerk helplessly -

France pulls his mouth off Estonia entirely.

Estonia’s moan is strangled and frustrated and positively beautiful. He props himself up again on his hands to look at France. “I was almost finished,” he complains.

“That’s far too easy,” France advises. “I have plans for you.”

“Oh no,” Estonia gasps, with a grin.

“Oh yes,” he replies. He reaches over and pulls out of the first drawer of the bedside table a small bottle.

Estonia looks at it and goes silent. (We cannot have _that_ , thinks France.) “If you do not want, we shall not, but I know what I am doing,” France says.

“That, I believe,” whispers Estonia. He looks at France, then at his fingers, and nods.

France continues as slowly as he’s taken much of this evening so far. (And the slow spin of it  _hurts_. His groin is on fire and the pressure is unrelenting, but he hasn’t travelled this far to blow it early.) He untwists the cap and squeezes a coin-sized amount in a little coil on the first two fingers of his right hand, then idly presses them to his thumb, smushing it around, getting it everywhere, contemplating the shine on his digits. He chances over a glimpse at Estonia, whose gaze hasn’t moved from France’s fingertips, watching their movements with shiny wide eyes. He watches as France brings his hand closer to him and trails it in a slow slide down his cock, firmly enough that it drags the foreskin halfway down the head. From this vantage point Estonia can’t see much of anything else that France is doing, but he can feel it … and he watches France’s eyes on him, watching his expression, as France traces his fingers around Estonia’s balls, and behind.

Estonia’s chest is racing, his breath thin, as France traces around his hole, and then slides across it, and dips in.

“Aah,” Estonia cries, a thin reedy, almost panicky sound. His cock twitches in midair. France dips a little further, and he makes the sound again. A little further, a little louder. Two knuckles’ length in with a single finger and he lets Estonia get used to it, pushing in gently, pulling out. Until he isn’t making that lovely sound anymore and France must resort the arsenal of tricks up his sleeves to prompt noise.

“It’s not bad,” Estonia says, “you’re right.”

So France adds a second finger, and drives deeper, and Estonia shakes so hard he falls off his hands and back onto his elbows. France goes deeper still, up to the knuckles at his hand - his thumb caressing the sensitive skin of Estonia’s thighs - and curls his fingers, twisting, crossing them inside Estonia.

“Then you like it?” France asks.

“Y-yes,” Estonia replies shakily, “it doesn’t feel as it once -” France interrupts him, driving his fingers into the hilt again, and Estonia’s hips jerk and his fingers clutch at the sheets, as he moans loud.

“As it once?” France asks sweetly. “Do not dwell on  _once_ , cheri, let only now matter. And let me know,” he teases, “be loud about it, for I shall be busy here,” and here he lowers his mouth to the tip of Estonia’s cock, flicking over it, teasing horribly and mercilessly, flirting with the prospect of an orgasm he won’t give him through oral, as he fingers him more intensely, thrusting his fingers in and out with a purpose that mimics the way his hips will piston smoothly in - once Estonia is properly loud again.

Estonia soon gets the point (thank the universe there are quick learners): if he wants to come it will be this way, so he angles himself and grips the sheets for some purchase to push himself back, onto France, riding France’s fingers, shifting his body and grinding into the palm of France’s hand, until he’s become adept at it. Until he moves with France and directs himself upon France’s fingers with the intent to strike exactly where he wants it, where he needs it, where he craves it. His cries grow louder, longer …

And then France distracts him by a quick flirting swipe of his tongue over the head of his cock, and removes his fingers.

“ _What_ ,” says Estonia in exasperation.

“Now,” asks France, “do you think you could move like that with me?” He peels himself off the bed and gets up to unzip his pants. He lets them fall to the floor.

“Yes,” whispers Estonia hoarsely, looking at France’s cock. He spreads his legs.

“You can move like that with this?” France picks up the bottle of lube again, and squirts out some more, to massage on himself. He’s so hard, he’s been hard for what feels like hours though they cannot have been at this more than forty minutes. (Nevertheless, forty minutes.) He gives himself a slow stroke. “On this?” he asks.

He positions himself at Estonia’s entrance and keeps himself there, firm.

“Yes,” Estonia whispers again, and shifts his hips until he’s worked the head of France’s cock inside him.

“Then do so,” France says, “move like you did, on this.”

So Estonia does, with France moving hardly at all. He squirms and writhes there, trying to shift his hips and do all the work. France gives him a nudge here and there, pushing in to meet his thrusts. But again it is the hint of an idea of really screwing him properly.

Estonia is quickly begging again. “Please, please,” he cries. “J-just take me, do it, France, _please!_ ”

“Sing for it,” France groans, “sing for _me_.”

He does, crying out, moaning loud, soft strands of melody haunted, possessed, infused with desire, _yes, yes - yes - oh - yes -_  and France rewards him by bending over, pushing in full, so that Estonia’s aching, untouched, lonely cock rubs up against France’s stomach, and France seats himself fully inside. “Please,” shrieks Estonia, “ _oh_  - please!”

Once, twice, three times, he thrusts in, and on the fourth Estonia, who pushes back with such passion, whose cries have become louder and longer and more tense, finally pulses against his stomach and comes, without being touched. France rides him through it, thrusting into the tightness until Estonia is trembling and begging for a release from a tidal wave of sensation.

Then, France lets go.

“What about you,” asks Estonia later.

France looks at him, puzzled. “What do you mean? You think I didn’t enjoy myself?”

“But - that was - you put so much effort into that, it must have been more work than pleasure for you, when you’re concentrating so hard on someone else.”

“If one excels at something, does it mean they no longer enjoy it?” France asks. “Do you no longer enjoy singing, for you put effort into it?”

Estonia concedes the point. “I - I don’t really know what I did to deserve it,” he says quietly. “I thank you. But - but I should return the favour?”

Finally, France smiles. His love for love is well-known. But few in his long lifetime stay awake long enough to make  _this_  connection.

“Sing me something,” he asks, so Estonia does, slowly, and softly, in his bed, a lullaby that permeates his dreams.


	15. (E) Lithuania/Prussia - "shutting Prussia up"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Sab](a-x-ce.tumblr.com) who asked, "Sara! Thought I missed my chance! Um, how about Gilbert being stood up from a date and then venting/crying about it to someone (your choice) who doesn't care at all and decides to shut him up in their own way ;) please and thank you~"
> 
> This one took me awhile, because I kept waffling on who should shut Prussia up! Many would enjoy that but Lithuania would really _really_ enjoy that. Implied (and failed) PruCan; hatesex (but underneath Lithuania’s _man you really piss me off_ attitude is an untapped vein of _and you have no business being that hot when you’re that annoying_ )
> 
> Set sometime in the Union days I guess, with strong implications that Prussia = GDR

“…so I gave up and came home!”

“So you gave up and came home,” echoes Lithuania, who had forgotten by the first hour how many times Prussia had said this. Lithuania wishes Prussia would give up now, too. After all, it’s been well over two hours and Prussia still won’t stop talking about it! Nothing Lithuania says seems to really get through to Prussia, because he keeps on talking even though Lithuania knows he has never appeared less interested in a conversation, and Lithuania knows that Prussia has the ability to identify that in a conversational partner. And that’s stranger still because he knows Prussia is actually listening to him - he says the right answers to the right prompts, and once or twice might be a coincidence but Lithuania is pretty sure they’re having a real conversation here.

Well. Something of a conversation. In all actuality Prussia is dominating much of the talk, and that’s not unusual, but it is pissing Lithuania off, more than he usually gets pissed off with most people talking over him. More than he usually gets pissed off with Prussia especially talking over him, because let Lithuania be honest with himself, that happens more often than not and is but one reason among many upon a long list that Prussia grates on Lithuania’s nerves in a way that nobody else really can.

But, Russia told him to do this, after all, and perhaps this once Lithuania does agree with the big lug, because it’s clear Prussia has gotten pretty solidly rejected. And that happens in the union all the time (everybody is sick of Prussia’s bullshit, Czech-and-Slovakia, Bulgaria, Poland, even Ukraine has put Prussia down - and Ukraine is sweet enough to see the good in everybody know matter how gauche Prussia’s pathetic come-ons might be) but it’s truly sad when it happens with someone from outside, with someone who is normally too polite to consider standing someone up (even if that someone is Prussia).

Secretly, Lithuania is a little proud of Canada for finally showing the balls to do something like that.

Still, Lithuania knows that the only reason he is still here listening to this barrage of complete and utter dreck is because Russia told him to. And alas, Lithuania is not in a position that he can refuse Russia. (Someday. Someday soon.) As much as he never likes doing Russia’s dirty work - all the things Russia himself should be doing but instead foists upon his favourite secretary-slash-bitch boy.

“Are you even listening?!” yells Prussia.

“No,” mutters Lithuania, whose patience has well and truly elapsed by now, and there is little politeness and patience on reserve for Prussia to begin with. “What’s there to listen to? You’ve been saying the same thing for over two hours now.”

“Well I’m gonna say it for another three, so you can clean the wax outta your ears and pay attention!”

Lithuania groans his frustration loud and long. “You cannot be serious!” he says. “How upset can you possibly be?”

“V-very!” says Prussia indignantly, spots of colour in his pale cheeks. “I- I liked him -”

“You _did not!_ You even told him you just wanted to have sex and you only like pissing Russia off cause Russia’s still sore about losing so poorly in hockey to him last month, you’ll probably forget about him next season like everybody else does! I’m glad Canada didn’t show - serves you right for asking people to _spread them_ instead of, oh, I don’t know, trying to be gallant for once in your life!”

“That’s called _being up front!_  It’s honesty! You should try it sometime instead of hiding your words in fifteen layers of fake politeness! And it’s still not very nice to be so late to something, he coulda called -”

“ _That’s_ called standing you up, I don’t think Canada was ever intending to meet you and really, who would? So that you can blather on for hours about yourself in his face instead of on the phone?” Lithuania slips into a momentary bite of sarcasm. It’s so cruel of him, and Prussia maybe doesn’t deserve it, but he’s gone and annoyed Lithuania now, and he always knows how to do that quickly and efficiently, it’s never an accident. “And then, what, you’d rut on his thigh gracelessly for two minutes until you climax? Sure, Prussia, sign me the fuck up!”

“Yeah!” says Prussia angrily. “ _Do_ sign yourself the fuck up, and if not you then Russia, _he’ll_  sign you the fuck up, because don’t think I’m dumb enough to think you’re doing this outta some sorta charity -”

“Because the lonely Prussia foundation doesn’t exactly get tax breaks!”

“God knows you never give me the time of day even when we’re supposed to be working on the same side -”

“Although let us be frank here, it should, because you’re alone all the damn time, and I wonder why that is, hm?? It certainly can’t be your scintillating company -”

“That’s it!” crows Prussia. “If I can’t get my rocks off I’ll at least work it off,” and he takes a swing at Lithuania, wide and open, an ill-aimed foolish blow that Lithuania dodges easily. It’s not a warning, it’s an invitation, screaming _fight me_.

“Don’t,” snaps Lithuania curtly. “I don’t want to fight.”

“Yeah?” breathes Prussia, uncomfortably close, backing Lithuania up against the wall and pinning him there with a sharp gaze and a violation of his personal space. “Well _I_  do, and I don’t think you have a choice, because Russia said to jump and what does his favourite lackey ever say but ‘how high’? Statehood looks pretty far from down there, don’t it, kiddo?”

Quickly and efficiently. It’s never an accident. _He asked for this,_  Lithuania says to himself now, and probably to Russia later.

He sees red, and then he sees his own fist land a blow right across Prussia’s jaw, and then he literally sees red, at the corner of Prussia’s thin lips.

I shouldn’t’ve done that, thinks Lithuania, but it doesn’t matter because Prussia is flying at him with his fists, shouting, “About fuckin’ time!” and the two of them are grappling.

For all Prussia’s anger - so much of it he’s practically shaking in Lithuania’s arms, red-faced with exertion - he still retains enough of his wits and plenty of muscle strength to be a decent opponent.

Lithuania has his work cut out for him trying to get Prussia off-balance. But Lithuania’s the one up against the wall, and besides, Prussia’s centre of mass is well-placed with his legs spread wide. Lithuania tries not to think about all that too hard.

But he fails because hooking him around the legs is a half effort, and Lithuania receives a sucker punch to the gut.

Mustn’t leave himself so open, he thinks, his heart racing. You give him an inch, Prussia takes the mile.

He ducks Prussia’s next blow and deflects the one after that, using Prussia’s motion to set him off balance. Prussia trips over his own stupid long legs, but recovers to use the movement and his weight to check Lithuania at the shoulders into the wall.

Lithuania accomodates the check as much as he can, the impulse of the force presses them together, and for a sick moment Prussia’s face is too close to Lithuania’s, buried nearly in the crook of his neck. Prussia drives a pointy, bony elbow into his chest but as Lithuania regains his wind from it, he swings his leg over Prussia’s well-muscled thigh to flip himself on top of them, then swings his head forwards to crash it into Prussia’s face.

It hurts - stupid Prussia and his stupid _beak,_ he thinks - but he’s not out of the woods yet and Prussia topples them both to the ground, landing on him and winding him again. Prussia lets up and in a flash is on his hands and knees above him, his legs pinning Lithuania strong at the hips.

He reaches up, grabs Prussia by the shoulder and tries to get him in the nose again with his face, but fool him twice, he can’t, and Prussia holds him at arms length, his fingers splayed on Lithuania’s face and jaw, struggling to keep them apart while keeping his hands away from a wolf’s teeth.

It’s an effort. Prussia is clearly distracted, trying to liberate his right arm to get a solid hit in, and every movement has him grinding his crotch into Lithuania’s. Lithuania uses his strength to twist up and put himself on top, and scrambles up Prussia’s body to straddle him, a knee on either side of Prussia’s head.

It leaves Prussia’s arms free, but he can’t be that stupid and anyway they’re behind Lithuania. He presses into Prussia’s temples with his knees and from Prussia’s grimace it causes some serious pain. Lithuania tells himself that the spike of heat he feels is satisfaction.

“Enough!” he says, panting. “I told you, I don’t want to do this.”

Prussia looks up at his face, then roams his eyes over Lithuania’s body, to rest at his groin, inches from Prussia’s mouth.

“We could do something else,” hisses Prussia darkly, with a wide grin.

“No, I really don’t want to,” replies Lithuania, but his voice cracks halfway through which is enough to make Prussia grin even wider. Lithuania has never wanted more to wipe that grin off his face, with the sheer sick magnitude of Prussia’s warmth beneath him.

Prussia tries to cajole him into it. “Come on,” he says, “maybe you don’t like me but you don’t have to like me for this.”

“You’re so annnoying!” Lithuania shouts, which is the truth, and then “I-I’m not even attracted to you!” which is not, and like most lies, it has him uncomfortably warm from his cheeks to the parts of his neck that peek out of his shirt. It helps that he is hyperaware of the distance between Prussia’s mouth and his groin.

Unfortunately for Lithuania, Prussia was not born yesterday (as much as he can act it sometimes) and knows what Lithuania looks like when he lies. “You know I’ll just keep talking if you don’t,” he says, and how someone who is pinned to the ground with his face between someone else’s legs can look so smug and superior, Lithuania will never know.

Lithuania glares.

“So _there I was_ in the cafe, and I bought a coffee and a cookie and took two napkins because one ripped -”

“Oh for god’s sake,” Lithuania growls. He shoves Prussia’s head backwards by the forehead, and presses the crotch of his pants into Prussia’s open mouth. Prussia’s eyes flutter closed and he exhales a sigh. The heat of it travels from the tip of Lithuania’s cock up. He can’t help it, he twitches in his pants, and Prussia grins even wider as he mouths at Lithuania, opening wide.

“From this angle, you’ll have to get ‘em undone, my hands’re pinned,” says Prussia, or so Lithuania thinks, because whatever he’s saying is heavily muffled. Hastily he removes his hands from Prussia’s hair and before he can think about it too much - it’s better than Prussia’s talking! no matter what, it’s better than Prussia’s talking! - he pulls himself out, already half hard, and that measure quickly increasing.

It takes some maneuvering, with which Prussia is surprisingly helpful (perhaps not so surprising, he say, over and over again, that he had wanted to meet up with someone to get off), but he shifts his pants and underwear down far enough to direct his cock into Prussia’s hot waiting mouth. Prussia moans louder than Lithuania does. Even now, he still doesn’t shut up! Behind him, he hears Prussia unzip himself. Evidently his hands not so pinned, thinks Lithuania dryly, as his cock hits Prussia’s palate, and he pitches forward onto his hands on the floor to better angle himself in.

He tries to go slow, but it’s so hot, and so wet, and Prussia is still moaning so loud, and the hand that isn’t playing with himself behind Lithuania’s back is trailing up the back of Lithuania’s thigh, digging into the parts where it meets his ass, which is a little too intimate. Part punishment, part thrilling ectasy, he sinks in deeper until Prussia’s sharp nose is driving into his pelvis, and with deep rocking thrusts that never pull him out of Prussia more than an inch, Lithuania fucks his mouth.

With this angle, the head of Lithuania’s cock finds the back of Prussia’s throat, drags along the ridges on the roof of his mouth, and rubs them on its way back down again. If Prussia is gagging or in any discomfort, he doesn’t let it show, which might be part desperation (Prussia’s still moaning and from the way his shoulders are jiggling under the weight of Lithuania’s thighs, he’s fisting himself uncontrollably fast). Of course he’s a natural with that stupid mouth of his, thinks Lithuania dryly, bucking his hips.

But it’s good, it’s so good his thighs are shaking, and finally there’s a little peace and quiet, but for Prussia’s crazed moaning, which isn’t that annoying when it makes him feel like this. Lithuania grips the carpet and arches his back, bucking into Prussia.

“Fuck,” he pants, “fuck, that’s -” and breaks it off into a moan as Prussia’s tongue lathes over the backside of his cock. With one hand he grabs Prussia by the hair and threads his fingers through it, tilting his face up so Lithuania can ride it. He thrusts again, Prussia curls the side of his tongue around Lithuania, and helplessly he comes down Prussia’s throat.

Almost immediately Lithuania realises he’s probably choking him, and lets up a bit, towering over Prussia on all fours and watching him upside down, through his knees. Prussia has his right hand around himself, stroking almost violently, and his left, the one he had curled around Lithuania’s thighs, he brings up to his swollen red mouth and sucks on his fingers.

It makes Lithuania throb; and reflexively, he licks his lips as he watches Prussia tongue his own fingers; it’s so hopelessly erotic. Luckily, Prussia is too busy moaning out an orgasm to notice.

“Fuck, god, _thank you_ ,” Prussia gasps, “I needed that.”

“Glad to be of service,” Lithuania replies acidly.

Prussia tilts his head up and openly ogles Lithuania, who hasn’t put himself back in his pants yet. “You’re not gonna tell the big guy, are you?”

Lithuania tuts derisively. “You truly give me no credit,” he mutters.

“Great!” he chirps. “So - same time next week? See ‘cause Switzerland said he’d do lunch if I paid, but just in case he, uh, ‘forgets’ the directions to the restaurant -”

“Don’t make me laugh!”

“I’d let you top,” Prussia offers.

Lithuania glares down at him from between his legs, and says nothing.


	16. (T) England/Prussia - "kilts"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Mieu](http://mieudiary.tumblr.com/) who asked "... that meme is too hard because all the prompts feel SO ENGPRU to me (especially the eyebrows one) but I just gonna "12/ …Having said that, I’m not wearing underwear." + Engpru yea"
> 
> engpru _yeeeaaaah_. Said meme was in regards to hilarious out-of-context quotes spawning drabbles but if I include the quote it'll spoil the ending!

No meeting was ever fun, but England would admit - under duress, perhaps - that some were better than others. More entertaining. By which he meant better food and closer lodgings to the conference centre and perhaps a park outside, so that he could indulge in the view when the meeting got dreary.

But Prussia, sitting next to him, did not count as the view! And when the meeting adjourned, and the other nations began to file out of the hall, England stuck around to tell him so. “You look ridiculous!” he said.

Prussia’s expression was pure indignance as he capped his pen and stuck it in the spiral spine of his notebook. “Excuse you! I look _awesome_.”

That was debatable. “Where did you even get that?”

“Online,” he said, and wiggled his eyebrows, “Scotland said it’d make me look manly.”

Manly?! “It’s a _skirt_ ,” England said.

“It’s a _kilt!_ ”

“Kilts are made of tartan,” he replied pointedly. “ _That_  is made of black canvas. And it’s studded.”

“For your pleasure,” said Prussia, under his breath, with a wry grin.

England felt his face inflame. “You wish,” he ground out. “You know there is a certain amount of respect to be afforded a garment like that!”

Prussia shrugged. “You’re not Scottish, what are you getting all torqued out of shape for?”

“Then at least you could do the courtesy of not wearing - that - to a meeting like this! We’ve _business_  to discuss!”

“Y'know, I can discuss business perfectly fine in this delightful garment.” Prussia leaned backwards on the table, perching on it as if to sit but without making the full effort to hoist himself up. It was for the better, if he did it would drag the hemline up his thighs and - and the less England thought about Prussia’s legs, the better! Instead, Prussia tucked his thumbs into the waistband of his pleated skirt (that he insisted incorrectly was kilt-like) which forced it down an inch, exposing his navel. “Why?” he said slyly, with a shit-eating grin. “Can’t _you?_ ”

England was rendered speechless (his _navel_ , that inch of skin, Prussia hooking his thumbs in the waistband, the material riding lower on his hips), and he could tell he had progressed to full-on blush because his face was so hot it could be used to boil water for tea.

“Yes, well I’m pretty sure you’re missing something,” he said instead, and he was very impressed with himself when his voice didn’t crack.

Prussia looked down at himself. “No, I put a pin on it!” he said, reaching down to the hem to hold it out. “Right here!”

“You’ve no socks on,” grumbled England.

Prussia lifted a shoulder. “Ehh. Don’t like ‘em. Besides, this way I can show off my legs.” He dragged the hem, with its little pin, up to mid-thigh.

“ _PUT THAT BACK DOWN OR SO HELP ME_ ,” he ground out, when he had finished the useless inarticulate sputtering portion of an utterance following an _indecent display like that_  (thighs so bloody white they could be used as headlights - and muscular, and smooth-looking…), and Prussia snickered but complied. “And where’s the purse?”

“It has a pocket instead on the side! Look, see?”

“I give up,” said England with a sigh. “The utter ridiculousness of this garment - or indeed your enjoyment of it - knows no logic. How Scotland convinced you to wear one is beyond me.”

“Oh, it didn’t take much convincing.” Prussia shifted from side to side, letting the material brush his legs back and forth. “This thing is so breezy!” he said, delighted.

He didn’t. “You _didn’t_ ,” said England.

But Prussia batted his eyes with the innocence of a lamb and said, “Didn’t what?”

“Tell me you’re wearing something underneath that monstrosity.”

Prussia looked over England’s shoulder to the door. “It is pretty windy today,” he mused, “guess you’ll find out soon enough -”

“I will murder Scotland in his sleep,” said England, trying very resolutely not to think of what Prussia may or may not be wearing underneath his kilt, and failing, because it was no doubt the same milk-white of his thighs, and England couldn’t get those out of his head, either.

“Hah! Good luck trying,” said Prussia. He clapped a friendly arm around England’s shoulders to steer them both towards the door - for they were the last ones left in the conference hall - and it seemed the only thing warmer than England’s cheeks was Prussia’s hand on his person. Need he really be so physical? “Look, don’t get so crazy over it! He said ‘cause it’s not traditional, I don’t have to be bound by a law like that. Besides. the way he put it, he said no true Scotsman would wear anything under his kilt. But like you say, it’s not a kilt - not a traditional one - and I’m not a Scotsman.”

“You’re bloody well right you aren’t,” muttered England. Why must Prussia stand so close? “I wouldn’t hang out nearly as much as I do with you if you were. And it defies logic why I stand your company as much as I already do!”

But Prussia only laughed. “Y'know, you always say that,” he said, and pushed the door open. The wind blew it wide the rest of the way, and as the chill flew into the hall, Prussia held him closer. “Having said that,” he said lowly, in England’s ear, “I’m _not_ wearing underwear.”

And then he walked outside.


	17. (T) - Prussia & Romano - prussia is drunk and romano is done

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [returnofthepundead](http://returnofthepundead.tumblr.com/) who asked "yo, how about no. 24 'lots of things are circular. like your argument, and the earth', with romano and like, maybe prussia??? but i'm not hugely fussed who the second person is. my main want with this prompt is bucket loads of sass"
> 
> Implied PruFra, but alas not really enough of it to merit a tag!

“But it’s the scientific method?” screeched Prussia in his ear. Prussia had been three sheets to the wind an hour ago, and Romano had been drinking (slightly) less. Still drinking, but not enough to make Prussia palatable as company. Not yet. “Because it’s scientific. Right? And you like science, dontcha?”

“’S much as the next guy, what’s yer point?” Romano scowled.

“Then the whole point of the scientific method is to _prove shit_ ,” said Prussia loudly, with his beer-breath stench in Romano’s face and a sharp jab to Romano’s chest with his index finger. “You see shit in nature, you experiment, develop a theory out of your hypothesis -”

“In your case, failed hypothesis, and probably hypothe _ses_ , as in more than one -”

“Shaddup, ’m getting distracted,” he mumbled. “So then it’s natural to say, well, see what happens and if it works, then ’s make a method out of it, and if it doesn’t, then we throw it the fuck out the window!” Prussia said, and punctuated this with the action of sweeping his arm across the bar, knocking three empty glasses off it.

The bartender glared at them both. “He’s paying,” said Romano.

“Am not,” mumbled Prussia.

“Whoever wins this argument picks up the tab,” he said.

“What!” Prussia screeched, and nearly fell off the bar stool.

“Or can’t you take a bet?”

“‘Kay,” Prussia replied, mostly into his bottle of beer, which he had inverted above his open mouth, trying desperately to milk it for the last few drops.

First, Romano ordered an Amaro. At least he’d make this worth his while.

“But you gotta admit, makes sense, right?”

“No!” he cried, “It doesn’t! And I can tell you why it doesn’t and it’s because if you’re using it to judge itself that doesn’t strike you as a little wrong?”

Prussia glared. Then he looked at the drink the bartender was pouring for Romano and asked, “How much’s that? Jus’ curious.”

“It’s lots. How the hell’d we even get onto this subject?” The bartender slid it over and Romano drained it in two gulps.

“We were talkin’ about the nature of truth!” said Prussia. “And you - ya big, ‘shpensive idiot - said that it couldn’t be proven, and then we started talking about proofs, and when is a proof not a proof, when it can be _proven_ \- and that’s how we started talking about climate change, which _you deny_ -”

“Only did it to play devil’s advocate,” said Romano, and signalled for another Amaro. “An’ hey, got me free drinks. Not my fault you’re a competitive dickweed and easy to take advantage of.”

Prussia took him by the wrist to stop the highway of alcohol to his face. “Stop drinkin’ those!”

“An’ weren’t you gonna go bug France about something? Like, three hours ago?”

Prussia pouted. It looked foolish on most people and positively ridiculous on Prussia. “Yeah, but he don’t wanna talk to me.”

“Why not? If there’s a reason _besides_  the obvious, which is because it’s _you_.”

“I said something maybe not so nice about his immigration policies and he thinks I called him a racist,” said Prussia.

“So, what I’m hearing is, it’s your fault, and you don’t wanna apologise?”

“I never said it was my fault!”

“You never have to. It’s always your fault. What, you gonna tell him fav'rite self-crowned emperor was a real prick next?”

“Well he _was_ -”

Romano held up a hand and drained his second Amaro. Then he signaled the bartender for a third. His fault for having asked. Now he’d have Prussia weeping about his friends on his shoulder. Romano should really have learnt by now.

“No _ooo_ o, don’t,” said Prussia, waving a hand ineffectually in front of him. It looked like he was trying to stop something by flapping around, but he only succeeded in toppling the glass before Romano could right it, and then knocking it past a point where Romano could reach it. “S’ fine,” he finished.

“It’s not fine,” said Romano, as he watched the glass slowly roll off the bar and crash on the floor.

“Look. It was his fault, because he’s France, and so that’s why it’s his fault. Because he’s France. Get it?”

“Can you maybe stop breaking things? Like your relationships, or half the barware?”

“I don’t break things. It’s just - it was the curvy shape so - like it was circal- circlar- y'know, like, round?”

“Circular,” said Romano flatly. “Like a circle. Like lots of things, like your arguments, and the Earth.”

“So, it rolled, and it just - zoom! Right off the bar!” Prussia made an effort at drinking the last of his beer a second time. “Not my fault. France too. Just zoom! Right out of my heart. An’ I don’t care. Hey, can I have another?”

“He’s cut off,” said Romano.


	18. (T) NedDen - Denmark buys himself a Dutchman for the day (Not As Porny As It Sounds)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [mmmmmaple](http://mmmmmaple.tumblr.com) who asked "(oh gosh, oh gosh yes) 17 screams DenNed to me but I mean it could just as easily be any PruDen or NedSwe. What a conundrum. Please help."

Denmark, who had been hanging around Amsterdam with very little to do before the world meeting, came with him to the Kingsday celebration. “So what’s th’ deal with today?” he said. “I mean, Kingsday, I get that, but. This whole place is a flea market!”

“Welcome to Kingsday,” said Netherlands. “This is the _vrijmarkt_.”

“What’s so special about it?”

“Well,” began Netherlands, “for starts, you don’t need a permit today to sell. And anything sold is tax-free. It’s literally that simple: you have old junk, you sell it. Anything goes. So everybody is a seller today.”

“Huh,” replied Denmark. “Well, what’re _you_ selling? Where’s _your_ stall?”

“Right here,” he said. Denmark cocked his head in that friendly-spaniel sort of way he had when he didn’t understand. It was stupid, and adorable. Netherlands lifted a finger in a mock salute so Denmark could see the masking tape around it, identifying him as both seller and item.

“You’re not really gonna!” said Denmark, his eyes wide.

Netherlands shrugged, and wagged the finger in his face. “I did say anything.”

Denmark spotted the number. “900 Euros?” he asked, and whistled. “That’s a lotta money!”

He reached over and flicked a stray lock of hair out of Denmark’s eye. It flew up for a moment and then settled back down where it had been, dangling into Denmark’s long lashes. “I’m worth it,” said Netherlands.

At this, Denmark grinned ear-to-ear, and leaned into him, their sides pressed together from shoulder to hip. Denmark had never had very good boundaries, and that had never really bothered Netherlands, but Denmark’s leer wasn’t helping his case this time. “Say, what could a guy get fer that amount of money?”

“A day of my services,” he replied, keeping it purposefully vague.

Denmark’s eyebrows crept past his hairline. It wasn’t as amazing as it sounded, because Denmark’s hair was all over the place to begin with. “Services like?”

Netherlands leaned back into him, and murmured, “Use your imagination.”

And then he walked off abruptly. Denmark lost his balance and tumbled onto the ground.

“Offer’s only good for before sundown, so shit or get off the pot,” Netherlands called behind as he walked. “You said you wanted some Delftware? There’s a teacup over there -”

“ _I’ll_ buy you!” piped up Denmark from the cobblestones, and Netherlands stopped walking.

–

“Just so you know, I _am_  doing this under duress,” Netherlands would find himself saying later, although of all the things he had expected Denmark to do with him - or to him - he had to admit that taking him shopping for evening wear and booking seats for the symphony at the Concertgebouw wasn’t among the top twenty, and ‘duress’ was quickly becoming in the loosest definition of the word.

“That’s a lie,” replied Denmark. He had a hand at the small of Netherlands’ back, a warm weight atop his suit jacket, steering him into the concert hall as they filed in with the crowd to their seats.

“It - maybe,” he confessed. “I _don’t_ like these cufflinks. You have awful taste in ties. The shoulders of the jacket fit but it’s the American style.” A single vent on the back. Single-breasted! “It’s not very flattering!”

Denmark poked his head around to check out the back. “Oh, I dunno ‘bout that,” he said.

He had the brief impulse to cover himself - damn Denmark and his ogling - and was delighted when they sat down. “Are you enjoying this?” he demanded. “Are you enjoying my discomfort? Is that what you’re getting out of this?”

“It’s only _mild_ discomfort,” corrected Denmark. “Can’t fool me!”

Netherlands shook his head. “You’re not paying me enough to be frank.”

“What, 900 Euros doesn’t finally buy some honesty from those tight lips of yers?” Denmark pouted. It brought a blush to his cheeks but Netherlands stayed firm. “Next Kingsday, then, mebbe.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Netherlands.

“I’ll up th’ price!” said Denmark.

“You want to do this next year? Why?”

“That is my fetish ‘bout men in suits!” he chirped. “The stuffy an’ persnickety kind, who sit there pickin’ at their lapels like they don’t belong, an’ all the while,” Denmark sighed, “my _god_ they look good.”

Netherlands wasn’t the one buying someone’s service here, he thought. Denmark had no reason to compliment him. No reason to lie. He wouldn’t getting any extra services out of it.

The orchestra, already seated, stood for the first violin and the conductor.

“Next year,” said Netherlands, “you’ll tell me when you come, so that I can buy my own suit.”

“Okay!” said Denmark.

“And you’re buying better tickets!” he added. The girl in the row in front of him turned around to shush him.

Denmark took put his hand over Netherlands’, on the armrest, and as the music began, he mouthed, _okay_.


	19. (T) - Lithuania/Estonia - historical men in suits

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For [Icelilly](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/pseuds/Icelilly), whose ask I lost but asked for something involving the quote of "that is my fetish for a man in a suit" - same as the previous chapter, in fact.
> 
> Set sometime in 1945ish. The Red Army contrives to steal things from Germany! While Germany at that time did have a lot that the Red Army later looted ([for example](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Priam%27s_Treasure)), I hadn't given the actual history all that much attention so it isn't based on any actual events or any actual hoards. The flak tower however [did exist](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Zoo_flak_tower).
> 
> I hadn't thought this one was all that good tbh but on the other hand, the LietEst tag is so lonely.

"But Estonia isn't a field agent!"

This, and many other reasons, has Lithuania declared in the past ten minutes, but this, like all the other reasons, go entirely unnoticed. Apparently, Russia has already decided, and will not be moved. "I do not have any other field agents," he replies. "Bulgaria is busy. Serbia's too loud. Hungary is a lady and all our materials are made out in a man's name. Poland won't help me loot, he says I've looted too much already. I don't trust Prussia to help steal from his brother without messing up. And also I plan to loot from Prussia next week. He would catch on, so he can't know. Now, Latvia -"

" _Not Latvia_ ," grinds out Lithuania, through his teeth.

Russia shrugs. "Not Latvia, then. But this must be done tonight, for tomorrow, Germany will have replaced the fired guards with new ones, and we won't be able to so easily retrieve any more information. Frankly, I am quite surprised they did not do it earlier. But then he probably is missing a few people. They keep dying, either in war or in deportation."

This from Russia is the pot calling the kettle black if ever Lithuania's heard it, but of course he does not voice that opinion. And he still doesn't like the sound of any of it. "Estonia was supposed to be behind the scenes for all spy work. That's what we decided. I asked you in 1942, and you said that it would be fine."

Russia smiles thinly, and says, "I changed my mind," and that's that.

"A-at least let me go with him!" begs Lithuania. Russia begins to argue but Lithuania interrupts. "He is no field agent! You wanted him to have skills with code-breaking and surveillance, so that's what he learnt! But stealth? Listen. I know that if we're caught, seeing both me _and_ Estonia there might alert Germany -"

"It shall definitely alert Germany," sniffs Russia primly.

"- so, we'll go undercover! And we'll stay undercover! But Estonia - he isn't - he's never been undercover before, or if he has then not like this. He could use a handler."

"And you are that handler?" Russia narrows his eyes. "You always want to be so close to him. Do you think I don't notice? I don't like favourites! We do not play favourites in the Union. _I_ am supposed to be everybody's favourite!"

"Y-you are," lies Lithuania, "you are my favourite! But - he's - ah - y-you know you would want to keep an eye out for your sisters. It is like that." It is not like that at all. But the less Russia knows about how Lithuania really feels about Estonia, the better. "Wouldn't you be concerned if, say, Belarus were trying to go undercover? Wouldn't you want to keep an eye on her? What if she got in trouble? Don't you want to be around to help rescue? And even if she didn't, wouldn't it make you feel better simply to be there?"

Russia considers it, and at last agrees.

\--

The treasure that Estonia had come across in his research is an immense hoard of gold, silver and copper artefacts from antiquity. They are, quite simply, priceless. Russia says he knows that Germany isn't going to give him any reparations when this war ends (as it will, Lithuania hopes, in a matter of days - he doesn't like working with Russia but he cannot, will not tolerate German occupation any longer!) and is preparing to take his share in advance.

Estonia, however, suspects that there is more there, where he has identified, but needs more information about it and how to get it. Information which he theorises (and Lithuania admits he is probably correct) is being kept in the bank, and Lithuania admits he is probably correct, because his own surveillance has seen the manager of the bank corresponding with the military on many occasions.

Unfortunately, both bunker and bank are nearby the large flak tower of the city, which makes the district the safest place in the city for civilians, and the most defensive.

But Estonia has good enough German on him (and he certainly looks the part, unlike Lithuania, who has to don a wig) to get into the district. The two of them pose as a pair of businessmen, in fancy suits, looking to make a security deposit, looking for the highest security available outside of Switzerland.

The guards at the district gates don't question his papers (of course they wouldn't, Estonia has been liaising with their best forgers) and at Estonia's insistence - he stammers, looks nervous, like if people know what's in the briefcase they'll want to take it from him, saying that they're quite protected secrets that could bring about the end of the war - they don't ask to see what's in the briefcase, and let them in with orders to go to the bank. Lithuania is impressed with Estonia's composure.

Inside, it is an enclave of business-as-usual: mostly civilians in suits, or for the women, in dresses. But for each civilian there are two armed guards. Only the highest could manage to get in to this part (Lithuania supposes that everybody else who hasn't a gun has scattered).

Estonia goes to the bank, enters in like he owns the place, walks up to the teller with confidence. But then Estonia begins to speak, again stammering, again nervous.

And it is then that Lithuania realises that Estonia's nerves are less act and more genuine, and that the more he speaks, the more he seems to realise he doesn't fit this job.

Lithuania intercedes. "My associate needs to make a deposit," he says commandingly, and explains the situation with the briefcase, but keeps vague about its contents. The teller looks at the two of them and then says that he will fetch his manager.

"Thanks," whispers Estonia.

"It's okay," says Lithuania. "If you want, I can do the talking."

"I- I think that would be best. Russia made this sound so easy, b-but I can feel them watching me and I just -" He seems so uncomfortable and he fidgets with the cuffs on his sleeves. It hurts Lithuania's heart. Russia should not have sent him. "Do I stand out? Can they tell? That I don't belong?"

"They see only what I see, two handsome men in fine suits, and one is very kind," says Lithuania, and then a little shyly and self-deprecatingly, "and the other less kind, and more serious, and therefore less willing to be taken advantage of by bureaucrats. I'm sure they'd love to keep us here long enough to crack the briefcase lock and see what is so important we need it stored securely, but we both know that if they do that..."

He trails off. If they do that, he means, they'll find that there's nothing inside but two folders of pages, all blank. The briefcase is a red herring; the key was to get Estonia here to figure out where the bank is keeping the looted art that Russia wants.

Estonia smiles wide, with dimples and rosy cheeks, and he couldn't look cuter if he practiced daily. "You really think I'm handsome?" he asks. "I think maybe it's the suit. A lot of people have something of a fetish, you know, for a man in a suit." But the manager arrives before Lithuania can properly explain his slip of the tongue.

The manager takes them down the hall to a separate office - all three pairs of their shoes clicking on the marble. Estonia looks nervous. Lithuania has to resist the urge to take his hand when in public, but there's nothing unmasculine about a friendly clap on the shoulders, so this he does, and squeezes lightly. And if his fingers happened to trail down Estonia's arm, from biceps to wrist, touching as much of him as Lithuania could get away with, well. There is only minimal surveillance in this wing of the bank.

In the office, Lithuania explains the situation again: they need a security deposit box for the briefcase. The manager fills out the paperwork and shoves it under Estonia's nose for signing. Estonia's hand shakes as he forges a signature that isn't his. Under the table where the manager can't see, Lithuania pats his thigh.

"Von Bock," the manager says, when he takes it back. "I don't recognise it."

"Baltic German," lies Estonia, and nods once, a stiff jerky movement of his head. "O-of course, I heard the call to return."

"How noble of you."

"Yes," says Estonia. "If you will excuse me. I saw - th-there's a washroom?"

"Down the hall. Well!" The manager says as he triumphantly taps them at the bottom to align before he clips them together in place. Beside Lithuania, Estonia has risen out of his chair and leaves the room. "I shall take these and be back in a moment with your receipt." He grabs the briefcase.

Lithuania grabs it back and slams it on the desk. "Just one moment," he says, getting to his feet. "If you're going to put that away, we want to make sure that that's where it is. So we'll come with you."

"That's not regulation," says the manager.

"I don't care," snaps Lithuania. "We're coming with you."

This is Estonia's cue. As the manager fights with Lithuania, their voices escalating beyond what is polite, even for businessmen, he is elsewhere in the bank, hunting around for the information that they came here to get. Within five minutes, he has returned, and takes his seat, just as the manager frowns and says, "Fine! You'll come this way, and step quickly!"

It is as Estonia and Lithuania are following the manager to the lift that Estonia tugs on the cuff of Lithuania's sleeve. "It's not here," he whispers.

"What?"

"None of the art. No hoard, no antiquities, nothing. It's not being stored here."

"Then - where?"

Estonia lowers his voice even quieter, such that if he in fact whispers, Lithuania cannot hear it, but Lithuania can read lips. In the tower.

They could leave with this information, and probably Russia would understand. Probably, it would be enough. But Lithuania has another idea. "I'll take care of it," he says, and winks. "Follow my lead." Estonia licks his lips, nervous, and nods.

The lift takes them two floors below ground, where both Estonia and Lithuania watch as the manager puts their briefcase into the safety deposit box, and gives them their receipt, as promised. "There!" the manager says. "Are you satisfied now?"

"Not at all," says Lithuania. "We shall need an extra copy of this. We have new orders. Someone's going to pick this up later tonight."

"What?" says the manager, clearly baffled. "How did you - you!" he says to Estonia.

Estonia blanches and freezes, deer-in-headlights. "There came a call, and he took it," Lithuania interrupts, before Estonia can say anything incriminating. "Our orders changed. I'm sure that's not a new thing to you."

The manager grumbles, but leads them back up to his office, where he retrieves a second paper, a form for granting permission to another to open a security deposit. He signs and dates it, and then Estonia signs and dates it, and Lithuania initials his witness.

"Thank you," says Lithuania coldly, folding the paper in threes and tucking it inside the breast pocket of his suit jacket. "Our associates will be in touch later this evening."

They leave the bank and head for the tower. It's the part of the district that has the most guards. "They can tell," says Estonia, "th-they can already tell, look at them -"

"They can't tell anything," replies Lithuania. "You belong here. You are a man with a mission and now, that mission is to deliver this message to the fellows in the guard tower. Nothing more, nothing less. You don't ask questions, people won't ask questions either."

"A-about that," Estonia says. "What will we do when we get there?"

"Do you think you can do some investigation, see if you can track down the location of the bunker?"

Estonia stops and stares up at the guard tower. "It's a big building," he decides. "If they were to have a bunker of priceless art, it'd be below ground."

Lithuania nods, thinking. "Then we need to get you below ground."

"How?"

"Let me do the talking," he says.

"Oh, gladly," replies Estonia, with great relief.

"I - look." He stops walking, and Estonia stops as well. They are in the main square, and people are milling about, but none closely. "Do you trust me?"

Estonia looks him in the eyes. "Yes," he says. "I'd trust you with - with my life."

Ah, that simple admission! It warms Lithuania to his toes. "Then we play the same game: I'll do the talking, you excuse yourself and slip down a hallway. If anybody finds you, you simply got lost. Follow me," he says, and prepares to lead Estonia into a den full of dangerous men with guns.

He presents the slip of paper to the men on guard outside. They don't want to admit them. "I'll take this to him," says the guard. "You're a civilian."

"I don't think so," says Lithuania, and plucks the bank paper out of his meaty paw. "I've got instructions -" and he name-drops a few important people and watches with private delight as the guard's eyes widen, "- to give this to him directly. You can come in with me if you like, if you really want, but this has to get to him within the next -" he checks his watch - "twenty minutes."

"Why twenty minutes?"

"Because the bank closes in twenty minutes. Time is of the essence, so will you let me in or do I have to raise a fuss?" Lithuania narrows his eyes. "You know my superiors won't be happy."

In the end, they let them through with only a single guard detail, a pair of young men who hold their weapons the way Estonia holds himself now: like something out of place. The four of them take the lift down two floors where they are met with more guards. "We'll take it from here," one says.

Lithuania is outnumbered but immediately picks a fight. "Excuse me, but I don't think so! This is to go to the senior officer - is that you? No? I put it in his hands or not at all."

"As you like! Then not at all it shall be," and the men guffaw. And as they do, Lithuania feels Estonia slip away beside him to another hallway down which he vanishes.

Lithuania keeps the men mostly entertained for about five minutes. The distraction only grows greater, as does the noise that many soldiers make when confronted with a youthful-faced, snooty businessman - mostly a lot of yelling. Sometimes they go so far as to push him around, but they do not follow through on the physical threats. After all, it is one against many, and as Lithuania is fond of yelling at them, it is a shameful and dishonourable thing, even for this lot.

But at last, he hears something that makes his blood run cold. "You there! What are you doing?" followed quickly by Estonia's voice saying, "Uh - I-I, um -"

"I'd love to stay and chat," Lithuania tells the men, "but I've better places to be, with better company," and with that he shoves the letter into the nearest's chest. "Give that to your superior, since you're so insistent on it, and see that he gets it in the next twenty minutes, or you'll regret it."

He turns on his heel and shoves his way past the two guards from the gates above with an elbow into each pair of spindly ribs, and finds Estonia cornered by another guard. Estonia could take him, easily - the guard is scrawny and Estonia is taller than him and if Estonia drew himself up properly he could be quite convincing - there's a lot that a tall-ish man in a suit can get away with - but he has shrunk against the wall and he looks petrified and he's starting to shake.

"What are you doing?" Lithuania says. Both Estonia and the guard snap to attention. "You!" he points to Estonia, and Estonia straightens like his spine has been replaced by a steel rod, his shakes stop, and his eyes widen - and his pupils dilate, and he blushes. "In the lift, now!"

"Yessir," Estonia breathes.

The guard mutters, "Should - should question you both -"

"There'll be none of that," Lithuania interrupts acidly. "I've wasted more than enough time here. Look at you all! Lazy, and mismanaged, and ill-organised. How you call yourselves an army is anyone's guess. A band of brothers in the forest could do better. Don't you get it? Fun is what you can have when the conflict is over! You can relax, when your job is done! Until then, I expect constant vigilance! Your country expects constant vigilance! How do you propose to defend your country with anything less?"

And it's funny, because up against Russia - or indeed against Germany - Lithuania would be a little nervous. But against a single human guard, it's nothing for him to muster up the grandeur as befitting a nation (he remembers keenly his statehood), whether under occupation or not, and even Lithuania isn't sure where he gets this backbone, but it doesn't matter. Lithuania's bark is of course far worse than he's capable of biting, in these hard times. Lithuania's appearance of strength and command, in fact, is entirely bluff.

But the human guard doesn't know that.

And to be fair, not all of it is an act! How dare he threaten Estonia!

"The senior officer will want a word," sneers Lithuania, as he too boards the lift and presses the button to close the door.

The bars of the lift close, and then the door, and then Lithuania is grabbed by the lapels of his suit jacket and pressed forward against -

\- against Estonia's lips, as Lithuania staggers forward, barely keeping his balance, knocked into Estonia and pressing into him from shoulder to hip, their faces smashed together at the lips.

"Mmh-" Lithuania moans, and Estonia moans back, and opens his mouth to slip his tongue inside Lithuania's.

"What," gasps Lithuania, in the split second of air he is permitted before Estonia takes him with one hand on his jaw and the other at the nape of his neck, and physically reattaches them together. This kiss is a bit more graceful, though Estonia is still moaning into it and pressing Lithuania close to pin Estonia to the wall of the elevator with his body.

The doors to the lift open and they break apart, immediately. Lithuania smooths down the front of his jacket and the two of them make their way to the flak tower's exit.

Lithuania is positive that the guards know what has happened - they must be, his lips must be bright red, kiss-bitten and swollen, his face is aflame from cheek to the portion of skin exposed by his shirt collar, its tie so tightly wound around his neck.

To Lithuania's credit, he manages to wait until they are outside of the guard tower, and does not explode as he would like.

"What is wrong with you?" he hisses. "I mean - I don't - I do, but - how did you know, and could you not have picked a better time?"

"Yes, obviously, I could've," Estonia mutters, "I just - you looked so." Lithuania looks over and Estonia is all flustered again at the memory. "You were so commanding. I've. I've never. My god." He tries - and fails - to get his breathing under control. "I'm sorry," he says at last, still out of breath but with a smile, "I should've asked. Just - that's my fetish for a man in a suit."

Lithuania raises an eyebrow, and then says, with a presence of voice he no longer feels, because he's far too preoccupied thinking about the full length of Estonia's hot body held to his, "We shall have words when we go home. After the debriefing. Without anyone else - just you and I. Is that understood?"

"Keep the jacket on," Estonia replies.


	20. (E) Finland/Sweden - merman AU (also vikings)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [emeraldcase@tumblr](http://emeraldcase.tumblr.com) asked for: "Could I please request a FinlandxSweden merman AU ? Where Timo is a merman that rescues human!Berwald from a shipwreck. It can be a moment they share on an isolated island. Or even smutty (I don't mind at all, as long as Timo is on top. I personally prefer bottom!Berwald)."
> 
> while an anon asked for: "Could I ask for some Sufin, with bottom!Sweden ? It doesn't have to be that explicit if you don't want to, I would just like to see some sexually submissive!Sweden..."
> 
> \- they were substantially similar enough so I combined the two!
> 
> A quick note on the names: Björnvaldr is just a viking’d version of Berwald that I calqued together. Björn is the morpheme for bear (so, ‘ber’) and the -valdr part I presumed was cognate with 'wald’ given that it shows up in names like Ásvaldr (now Oswald). ’Tjalfi Schønberg’ is one of the names I’ve used for Denmark; Þjalfi is a more archaic viking’d form. Lembit’s a pagan Estonia name I’ve heard bandied about, and Väinö is just short for Väinämöinen. There's a couple more historical notes at the end.

“They don’t fuckin’ exist,” mutters Björnvaldr Auroch-Star.

“I’m tellin’ ya, they do!” says Þjalfi Fair-Mountain. “I heard it from Ketill who heard it from Gulla. There’s people what live in these here parts! An’ I mean the ocean!”

“Uh-huh,” says Björnvaldr. Þjalfi intends to distract himself with nonsense. He talks up a storm to take his mind off another, as the sky gets darker and darker and he grows nervous. It’s something Þjalfi does a lot, and Björnvaldr has long ago accustomed to it. In a moment Hlíf Iron-Stone will give the signal to ready the tents, and others will raise a roof of sailcloth, well-oiled, above their heads so that rowers like Björnvaldr and Þjalfi (for all his talk, he’s a good pair of arms) can keep their pace.

Hours pass and Björnvaldr has forgotten himself in the pattern. Bent forward, dip in, pull back, water on the wood, push their craft forward through the choppy, brackish sea with their combined efforts. Repeat, repeat. He will be relieved soon.

It is not the first time they have been East, and Björnvaldr believes it is well-enough travelled that it will not be the last time, either, but in this he is wrong. For the storm comes upon them suddenly, and the boat rocks like mad.

Þjalfi beside him shivers, and not with the damp cold. “We’ll die here,” he says. “All-Father, we’ll  _die_.”

“G'wan an’ tell us all 'bout yer fish-men again,” says Björnvaldr. He keeps rowing.

But behind him there is a nasty splash, and the back of his shirt is soaked fresh by cold water. His shirt has been soaked in sweat for hours now so it is almost relief. However, that much water inside the vessel is a bad sign. He hears the men behind him who aren’t rowing with buckets and cups, quick to scoop up the water and spill it out past the tent, but they cannot do it fast enough for the waves. Soon there is water up to midway of Björnvaldr’s calves. And this is a very bad sign.

He pauses in his rowing to take stock. Others have stopped rowing to pick up buckets and pitch in with water-throwing. Beside him, Þjalfi is muttering a prayer and kissing his Thor’s hammer, and then he speaks something to ‘Perun’ and genuflects like a Christian as though he’s praying to any god that will hear.

Björnvaldr thinks that he looks truly ridiculous. “C'mon,” he says, and claps a solid hand on Þjalfi’s wide shoulder, “'nuff of that, let’s get t'work.” He gets to his feet.

Then there is a thunderous crack of wood splitting, the mean groan of it as the mast veers and swings down, and something hits him in the back of the head and lifts him off his feet, but Björnvaldr is unconscious before he hits the water.

–

The next thing he knows (and when he takes a moment to compose himself he finds he cannot remember a thing, and his head his throbbing), he’s being kissed awake.

Björnvaldr’s eyes fly open.

Lit by the feeble shafts of light from above, he sees a face - wild white hair, whipping around in the slow wind, a perky nose, high cheekbones, skin so pale it could be translucent, and eyes clenched shut. The face backs up - it is a _man’s_ face, and Björnvaldr has never thought himself to be one of those men but he admits he has made little effort with the women of their village and that’s perhaps telling - and the swollen pink lips part, and the man’s eyes open.

They are the violet of winter crocuses in snow and they glow. They have a fire of their own. Björnvaldr is not a poetic man, he is not embellishing, he is certain of this plain and simple fact. This man has purple glowing eyes. It is a fact at once horrifying and stunning and his breath escapes him in a series of bubbles. He tries to gasp in another.

The man’s eyes widen in surprise, and he swoops in and seals their mouths together once more, gripping Björnvaldr to him.

It impresses many things upon him at once. The first, that the kiss is not passionate, but merely practical - as their lips open to one another, air floods his mouth and he gulps it down greedily. The second, that behind the first breath of air, is a second. How powerful are this man’s lungs? The third, that Björnvaldr is clinging to this man, and he to Björnvaldr, and they are weightless together. And the fourth, that the shafts of light from above are shifting, moving, with the surface of the water. The water which they are under.

Björnvaldr breaks their contact to look up. He can’t judge how far below water they are. His panic begins to rise, and he tries to wriggle himself out of the man’s grasp to kick and paddle his way to the surface, but the man holds fast and steady. Stronger than he looks. This man had seemed slighter. He does not feel slighter.

Perhaps Björnvaldr can encourage him surface-ward. He wraps his arms around the man’s waist and tugs him closer, until they are connected from chest down. He has the intention to kick them both up, but all plans fly from his mind when he realises two more things. The skin he touches is not skin, but cool and smooth, like a mailshirt of misshapen coin. And the man has no legs, but something else entirely.

This man is not human.

Björnvaldr begins to panic outright, and the man kisses him more fiercely, pushing air into his mouth as fast as Björnvaldr gasps it away.

The man lets him go and shouts something - Björnvaldr cannot make it out - and then slaps him on the cheek, less for pain and more to avert his anxiety. By this time, Björnvaldr has ejected all his precious air, and at a panicked look from him the man swoops in to kiss him soundly once more.

As foreign as this creature is, Björnvaldr feels he could not mean him harm - if he had intended harm, he wouldn’t be providing Björnvaldr’s air, he would have let Björnvaldr die.

And, Björnvaldr reasons, there are only so many times he can have a mouth upon his before he ceases to recall that it is for practical purposes alone. None has ever kissed him before, not like this. And his lips are so soft, and this man is so warm in his arms, and Björnvaldr finds himself sinking, so loose and comfortable, floating in this strange sea-man’s embrace. The man tilts his head and fits them together more perfectly, and he places a hand on the side of Björnvaldr’s neck, supporting it, stroking it. Björnvaldr feels like his flesh is aflame, which cannot possibly be the case underwater. His capabilities slipping, he groans and his eyes slip closed, and he relaxes fully.

The man pulls back, feels for his pulse, and then peers into Björnvaldr’s eyes. He decides something - his eyes narrow and the set of his jaw is grim. He leans in close and says something very slowly into Björnvaldr’s ear.

Impossible, incoherent. Björnvaldr shakes his head. The man, too, shakes his head, and then takes Björnvaldr by the hand. He tugs twice, and then kisses him to give him more air, then tugs twice again. Ah. A signal. If Björnvaldr needs more air, he must use it. Somehow this gets past Björnvaldr’s foggy thoughts, mostly preoccupied with the delicious way the man fits against his body and the seasalt taste of his lips.

Even so, Björnvaldr is not thinking very quickly, because it’s a surprise when the man tugs him off, swimming away with Björnvaldr in tow.

Between tugging him back for more air, Björnvaldr studies him. This is difficult. It’s getting very hard to think. It’s getting very hard to see. Part of Björnvaldr notes distantly that the man is dragging him _away_ from the light as they swim together. The other part of him is occupied, busy watching the man swim into darkness. He makes a lovely scene. Björnvaldr’s heart thumps heavily in his chest.

The man is nude from the waist up, which makes sense, because what clothes needs a fish? And the bottom half of him is distinctly fish. From his hips extends a long, thick, scaly portion, a little less the size of what Björnvaldr might expect his thighs would be given his figure. Along the back of it is a fin, a graceful feathery protrusion, and it ends in a long whip, more like an eel’s than a salmon’s.

But the unsettlement in this portion is that it moves entirely differently than a man would with his legs bound. A man with his legs wrapped up in a scaly blanket is one thing, but there is nothing that looks like knees or ankles or feet. It’s just. Tail. This man, thinks Björnvaldr, is a giant fish. If there are bones, then they aren’t very large. He moves like an eel might, his entire lower half curved in inhuman ways, until he is the smooth arc of a circle, unbroken by joints.

They squeeze through a narrow opening of rock - by now, Björnvaldr can see nothing. His shoulders nearly don’t make it, but the man pulls him through, then kisses him quickly to replenish his lungs. They swim a bit farther along, and then sharply the man tugs him up and he feels air on his face.

Björnvaldr breathes in deeply and his dizziness and lightheadedness lessens. His mind clears. Not enough that he is fully unperturbed by the creature beside him, still half-immersed in the water, because he is half-fish, and because his softly glowing eyes are the only light in this place, but enough that he is capable of seeing the logic in the situation. This creature possesses enough strength to kill him. This creature could have left him to drown. This creature did neither of those things, and instead gave him the breath and directed him here. He can’t mean him too much harm.

And perhaps Björnvaldr is still thinking an awful lot about his lips.

“Here,” says the man. Björnvaldr is shocked to find that he speaks his tongue. “You’re not made for swimming as I am. There’s a rock ledge, you can sit up.”

So there is. Björnvaldr scrambles to get a foothold and pulls himself up to sit. It seems sturdy. “Who are you?” he asks.

“We call ourselves folk of the Land,” explains the man.

Björnvaldr rolls his eyes. So does practically every people he’s ever met. And that doesn’t discount the fact that this man is obviously not of any Land. “Well then. What’s yer name? Where d'you come from?”

“I don’t know,” says the man cheerily. “We’re just … from here!” Then there are more of them, Björnvaldr realises. “I might as the same of you,” the man adds, “since _you’re_ the one in _my_ territory.”

Björnvaldr grimaces. “We travelled by boat, but… there was a shipwreck. It broke, an’ we fell in th’ water. We don’t like t’ be here.”

“You’re a bit far from home,” says the man.

Björnvaldr gets to his feet and wanders cautiously, feeling out his steps lest the rock ledge be smaller than he hoped. He does not want to answer. It’s not for others to know of the movements of his people. When their ship doesn’t return, the jarl will send more. Best Björnvaldr can keep the advantage of surprise for his people the longer he can.

“And you call me strange,” says the man.

Björnvaldr turns back to the purple pair of lights above the water. “I never said anythin’ of th’ sort!”

“You didn’t have to, you nearly panicked your mind away when you touched my scales. I was a little offended!” But not really. The man’s tone is jocular. “I can’t be that ugly, can I?”

Björnvaldr shakes his head. His saviour has swum up to the edge of the rock and is propped upon it with his elbows. In the faint light, all Björnvaldr can see of him is his handsome thick forearms (along which a fin protrudes, from wrist to elbow) and his smiling, charming face. But his eel-self is entirely hidden below in the dark water. Björnvaldr recognises only humanity in that face. It is too easy to form a kinship.

“Yer not at all ugly,” says Björnvaldr awkwardly. “A-an’ I’m not at all sayin’ that 'cause ya saved me, or kissed me -”

“That was breath-giving,” teases the man. “A kiss is something a little different.”

“Havn’t ya never seen one like me, b'fore?” asks Björnvaldr. “D'ya then think _me_ too strange?”

The man shakes his head. “I have never seen a creature wear a second skin like yours, so loose about its first. And those - what are those for?” He points to Björnvaldr’s legs.

“Ah,” he replies, “those’re legs. Above th’ water, this’s how we move 'round. An’ we need th’ clothes - ’s cold above water.”

“Are you still cold now?”

“No,” says Björnvaldr.

The man smiles wide and bats his eyelashes. The light of his eyes flickers like a twinkling star. “Then?” he asks with laughter in his voice.

It seems logical. And the man before him is nude. Not that his soaked clothing, clinging to his skin, really leaves much to the imagination. All it does is make him feel chilled and clammy. Björnvaldr fingers the hem of his shirt, contemplating.

“At any rate, it’s very warm below it,” offers the man. “Anyway, I wouldn’t know. I cannot leave the water.”

Then it would be kinder to join him. Björnvaldr makes the decision and pulls his shirt over his head. “Y’ can’t?”

The man shakes his head. “I’m breathing now through the slits in my hips,” he says, “I must be in water for that.”

Gills, thinks Björnvaldr, it must be gills. Explains how he had so much air in his lungs. “Then y’ don’t use yer mouth 'r nose?”

The man only smiles. “This,” he says, pointing to his mouth, “is for speaking, singing. Breath-giving.” He smirks. “Other things, too.” He watches Björnvaldr step out of his wet trousers and eyes his prick. “What’s that for?” he asks.

“Ah, well,” says Björnvaldr with a blush, “that’s - fer th’ begettin’ of children.”

The man nods in understanding. His own must be something like it, thinks Björnvaldr; if it were like fish or serpents - laying eggs - he would think it strange. “Yours is large,” the man comments.

“Hm,” says Björnvaldr, blushing harder, and he turns to the side, abashed. “Ah. Thanks?”

“It is not a compliment,” says the man tartly. “And the curves behind you? Below your back, what are those for?”

“Those’re -” Come to think of it, Björnvaldr can’t really find a suitable reason for why the buttocks are curved in such a manner. “Those’re just muscles,” he says instead.

“They are very large and round,” says the man.

“S'pose so,” says Björnvaldr, uncertainly.

The man smiles. “That _was_ a compliment.”

Not keen on being ogled, Björnvaldr prepares to joins him in the water. “What _is_ this place?” he asks.

“I found it years ago. An overhanging cliff above, and the water of the seas increases to sink it. The air, trapped within.”

Björnvaldr slips in, beside the man where he perches upon the rock, and has to tread water with his feet to keep his shoulders afloat. But it is warmer here. “Like this,” says the man, and holds him tightly by the waist. His own two legs kicking and squirming are nothing; the man’s tail sweeps about them, judging by the way the water flows around his limbs with the force of a wave, and the two of them are held aloft above the water, seemingly effortlessly. It is Björnvaldr’s first hint that for all that sailing and raiding he does, this man may be stronger still.

Except that this has Björnvaldr nude, chest-to-chest with his saviour, a beautiful fish-man with soft glowing eyes, and a teasing smile, who’s done little else in the past hour but kiss him, and who likes his ass. Björnvaldr’s gaze drops to the man’s lips, and before he realises what he does, he has leaned in again and pressed his own against them. It is possible that Björnvaldr is still a little dizzy and euphoric with his brush from death and the lack of good air. It is also possible that Björnvaldr has never met anybody nearly as interesting, nor nearly as beautiful, as this man. His pulse thunders in his ears loud enough that Thor could hear it.

When the man breaks the kiss he says, “But you have air, you need no more of it.”

“I know,” says Björnvaldr with a flush that should not be visible in the light of the man’s eyes, but is, for the man grins. “Air’s not what I’m after.”

The man’s eyes widen and with a great smile he nods, knowingly. “I understand,” he says, “the dolphin play. Our folk are fond of it too.”

“If y'want,” Björnvaldr adds in a growl. He doesn’t expect his voice to be so low. His own lust takes him aback.

The man’s grip around his waist slips to curve around his ass, and he shifts them around to prop Björnvaldr against the rock. His tail rubs sinuously against the backs of Björnvaldr’s calves. It should perturb Björnvaldr more, to be so reminded. He pictures the way serpents mate, their bodies looping around each other and frotting and rubbing and he feels himself harden. He isn’t perturbed at all.

“To be clear, I would’ve saved you, even if I hadn’t been thinking of it,” the man says, before he leans in closer and kisses Björnvaldr, hot and open-mouthed, with far less breath and far more tongue.

The man takes a moment just to test Björnvaldr’s responsivity, and as one hand has Björnvaldr lifted and supported against the rock, the other roams across his chest. Björnvaldr responds in kind. The man’s nipples aren’t sensitive but as they quickly find, Björnvaldr’s are and he arches against the rock and pushes his pelvis against the man, when the man fingers one and leans forward to take the other in his mouth. His groin pulses with an ache he has felt only alone at night in his own camps, no longer familiar but multiplied and made urgent by the touch of another.

It’s such a strange feeling as the head of his cock pushes against the man’s scales. Slick and smooth in one direction but as he moves back the movement catches on them and it feels ribbed. He moans aloud and his legs fall open of their own volition as he cants his hips up, desperate and needy for more.

“It’s engorged,” whispers the man hoarsely, surprised. “Ours too, but - so large?”

“Yes,” is all Björnvaldr can say.

The man reaches his hand low to touch it and Björnvaldr squirms in his grasp, which is not nearly firm enough or rough enough, a barely-there whisper of sensation. Utterly maddening. “You like that,” the man says.

“Yes,” moans Björnvaldr. “An’ - you, I c'n touch?”

The man’s tail loops around one of his legs to grip him close, and he rocks against Björnvaldr’s groin. “You’ve my every blessing,” he breathes, hissing.

The gills are on the hips, as the man said, and he shivers against Björnvaldr when he strokes across the wide slits. Björnvaldr’s further questing culminates in a smooth portion at his front, where his cock should be, but instead of it there is another slit and a pair of fleshy appendages about it, not unlike a woman’s (Björnvaldr has never touched but he has seen). He fingers one of them idly and it clasps him, the muscle surprisingly strong.

He’s about to try putting his fingers inside when out slides a short, fat something, thicker than Björnvaldr knows he is, but only about the length of his hand’s breadth. The muscle lets his fingers go and he wraps his hand around it, pulling experimentally.

“Softer,” encourages the man, and Björnvaldr tries to mimic the way the man touched him, if that’s what he’s used to. “Tha-at’s it,” he says, his voice tremulous, “aah, like that,” and the thing in Björnvaldr’s hands pulses once and becomes slick. He removes his hand from Björnvaldr’s cock - Björnvaldr whines with the loss - and begins fondling his buttocks. “Don’t worry,” says the man, “I’ll return there eventually, but I need to explore these.”

Björnvaldr has a feeling he knows what the man is looking for, and tilts his hips up, both to frot himself upon the man’s scales (the most delicious surface he thinks his cock has ever had the pleasure of feeling, but that in mind, it has only before felt clothing and his own hand, so) and in the hopes that the man might find something else.

At last, he finds the hole behind the smoother skin behind Björnvaldr’s balls and strokes a finger across its pucker. “Ah,” asks the man, “that is - cloaca?”

Björnvaldr has no idea what that is. “If yer gonna do what I’m hopin’ yer gonna do, an’ if the answer yes’ll getcha t’ do it, then yes,” he growls.

“And what might that be,” says the man, teasing again, as he lifts Björnvaldr up further on the rock, causing him to spread his legs and expose himself more fully. The man swims in between his legs and resettles them high on his hips, above his gills. His cock - or what passes for it as it juts out of a plane of scales - runs against the upper back of his thigh. He begins with his fingers. “This, perhaps?” asks the man. “Hmm?”

Björnvaldr grunts. “Not with yer fingers,” he says. The rough friction as he inserts them isn’t what he’d imagined. Not painful, but awkward and uncomfortable.

“You want _thisss?_ ” The man whispers, rocking his cock against him. It sounds less human. Björnvaldr throbs against him and around the digits that separate inside him, his fingers spreading in a V. He yearns for it.

“Yeah,” he gasps, “Yeah, that.”

“You'rre not rready yet,” says the man. The r’s are obscenely trilled and his t’s sound wetter.

“Don’t care,” says Björnvaldr, “do it, please.”

“These first.” The man shifts closer and the press of something is against his hole before -

“Aaargh!” he groans. Something has latched onto him. It feels like it’s sucked part of the rim of his asshole, holding it gently aside. He feels wide open. “What’s -”

“Those are the claspers,” the man says. “You haven’t got them.” His eyes seem brighter, and then he frots himself against Björnvaldr, their chests sliding together, and as he does so something pushes inside. That’s his cock, thinks Björnvaldr, it has to be, and a hot rush of excitement thrills him.

As the man rocks back and forth, sliding their bodies together, it drives it further inside him, until it nudges against something that takes Björnvaldr aback with dizziness. For a moment the sharp pleasure is so intense he feels he might faint. “More,” he grunts.

“I’ll give you more,” the man promises, and his tail wraps up and around one of Björnvaldr’s thighs, coiling around it, and using it as an anchor to drive himself deeper, pressing inside him in a way that is so delicious Björnvaldr thanks all the gods hes ever heard of.

He’s already close. The lack of air and this beautiful man have already increased his arousal. “Don’t stop,” he begs, “don’t ever stop, hhngh, ’s perfect.”

“I won’t,” says the man, “on one condition.” He jabs his hips in a sharp thrust up that has Björnvaldr’s head spinning. He wishes he could spread his legs wider.

“Yeah, anythin’,” says Björnvaldr, arching and moving with the man, angling his body to meet his thrusts. Deeper, his body screams, deeper. He’s so close. He’s nearly there. Another - and he’ll burst - headily he chases the pleasure -

But before Björnvaldr comes, the man pauses in his thrusts and asks him, “I merely want to know one more thing.”

“Anythin’,” says Björnvaldr again, gasping, “anythin’ at all. Don’t stop!”

“What were you all doing there? On the water? Where were you trying to go?”

At first Björnvaldr does not answer but then the man thrusts in hard and deep and Björnvaldr yelps. It nearly hurts. It doesn’t hurt enough, and he feels himself float inexorably towards the thrill of climax. He cannot help his hips greedily shoving back onto whatever appendage the man has thrust inside him. Upon second thought, it isn’t as like a prick as he’d thought, it doesn’t feel like one, and the man is able to move it with some degree of freedom, twisting and writhing it inside him.

“Where were you trying to go, Björnvaldr?” asks the man, angrily this time. “Answer me!”

“I won’t,” says Björnvaldr, fucking himself as best he can on the man, grinding himself forward and pushing himself off the rock by his shoulders. “I won’t give away my jarl’s plans.”

“Don’t you come to our villages to rape and pillage!” says the man.

“Can’t guar'ntee it,” he says.

“You get nothing until you do!” the man shouts, and he holds him fast. Nothing Björnvaldr seems to be able to do will make the man move the way he wants to. He feels frantic in his lust and squirms but he is helpless. The man’s belly had seemed soft, but it is not, and his arms are not, and there is significant strength in him. Björnvaldr is certain it’s more than he possesses himself.

“Please,” begs Björnvaldr, “let me finish, complete me, an’ I’ll -”

“You’ll what? What will you do to stop your people from wreaking mayhem on our settlements?”

“I-it’s nothin’ I can do! It’s th’ jarl’s decision!”

“But you can do something about that, can’t you?” hints the man. Inside Björnvaldr, the appendage thickens faintly, a bulb at the tip, and it rubs against him in delicious ways that have Björnvaldr moaning aloud, echoing pitifully against the cliff walls. Somehow this man knows how to work him, though he cannot have known anything about men, because he didn’t know anything about legs. But here he has Björnvaldr spread wide and open and something inside him rubbing him in a way that is drawn out and suspended, torturous and too slow to be savoured. Björnvaldr had never thought himself impatient until he was impaled like this and kept lingering a hair’s breadth from ecstasy that he knows this man could tear from him.

“Hm?” adds the man sweetly. “Can’t you do anything?”

Björnvaldr groans. “Please,” he pants.

“Not until you tell me what I want to hear.”

“ _Aah_ \- I’ll ask 'im!” cries Björnvaldr. “He won’t like it. But I’ll ask him not t’ come this way again!” Is that enough? Gods above, let that be enough!

“You’ll _tell_ him,” says the man, and again the swell of the appendage inside him drifts along a set of nerves that has Björnvaldr crying aloud. But he cannot finish like this! “Promise me you’ll tell him!”

“I’ll tell him,” babbles Björnvaldr, “please, let me - I’ll tell him - just let me, please!”

“And you won’t come anywhere near the south, either,” adds the man. “Not north to me, not south to my brothers. Is that right?”

Björnvaldr groans again. “Whut more can I say?” he says. “I can’t tell 'im t’ never sail east again!”

“He may go to the Varangians and raid there. But not to us. He may visit us, if not to raid.”

Björnvaldr wriggles down and there’s a fraction of space in the man’s grip that he frots himself against the man’s scales, and pushes the man’s - whatever it is - inside him, closer to where he needs it to. For a second, all is hot-white and his skin is on fire, but the second is quickly over and he is bereft, still hard as a rock, still hasn’t finished. And now the man’s grip is iron strong.

“Say it,” pants the man, fighting to maintain his composure. “Say it!”

“An’ when we sail east -” for Björnvaldr knows that his jarl will not be satisfied - “an’ if we drift off-course - what’ll you do, will ya push us back t’ sail true?”

“We’ll do nothing of the sort,” says the man. his thumb strokes along Björnvaldr’s hipbone, his grip relaxing slightly.

Björnvaldr shifts down to try and fuck himself again upon the man but the man holds him steady. “Please,” he begs.

“Not until you promise,” says the man. “I need your word.”

“I can’t give it to ya!” sobs Björnvaldr.

“No?” says the man.

“I can’t,” whimpers Björnvaldr, “I swore fealty to 'im -”

“You would serve your people better if you swore to me,” the man adds.

“I _can’t_ ,” he moans helplessly. “Please!”

The man’s beautiful eyes narrow, and then he nods once, his mouth set grim.

And then everything happens fast. His hands are upon Björnvaldr’s arms and he has torn them both from the rock and fallen backwards into the water and they are moving down, down again. Somehow the man is still inside him. The claspers probably, holding them together at their entrances. And throughout all this, he has managed to avoid hitting his cock where Björnvaldr needs it. Björnvaldr tilts his face up for a kiss, expecting air, but the man bares his teeth and sinks them into Björnvaldr’s neck.

Then he thrusts up, once, twice, masterfully, powerfully, and Björnvaldr screams underwater as his orgasm rips through him, bright and hot, and he forgets in its immense pleasure that he cannot breathe and gasps in twice.

And then he coughs and chokes, the water filling his lungs. Coughing only worsens it, he gulps in more water. His air is gone, and the man is fucking him still, his jaws at Björnvaldr’s neck, but with no air and only panic Björnvaldr realises quickly he will die like this. Desperation fills him. He can’t die like this! With no weapon!?

But his thoughts slow, enfeebled by his deprivation, and the water inside his chest only fills. 

In front of him, the man completes, shooting hard inside him, as the bulb on the end of his cock swells again, knocking against his sensitive flesh. Björnvaldr gasps in once more reflexively and then all is black.

–

Slowly, Väinö comes out of the trance. The fire feels burnt into his eyes and his cheeks are overwarm as though he’s been not just staring into it but leaning into it. Little wonder he didn’t tumble face first into the coals.

“You’ve lost connection,” says Lembit. “Did it work?”

Lembit is the southern man from across the seas who has come in his people’s stead seeking the assistance of Väinö’s. Lembit says that their own homesteads have been three times this summer attacked by the northern men sailing from the west, that their ships are fast and their battle-ways mighty. So far, the Islanders have skillfully repelled many attacks, and on one occation their archers slew many oarsmen before the ships even ran aground.

But Lembit’s people’s archers and warriors are only so many, and they have lost some to raids, whereas more and more Northmen come every year. There seems no end in sight, and Lembit’s folk grow concerned.

“I felled a ship,” says Väinö.

“Where? Close to shore? Did they all perish?” Lembit’s lips are in a worried line. “Shaman, if any survived to return…”

Väinö shakes his head. “One of the men’s _itse_ was open to me.”

“How can he have _itse_? He’s not of your folk.”

“All have _itse_ , whether he knows it or not. The fact that I accessed it for a time is evidence of that! Anyway.” Väinö glares. “I appeared to him as Näkki and had my way with him.” Lembit sucks in a breath. “He knows now the kind of things we could do to him. If he comes seeking our pillage, we will lay him low.”

In the soft firelight, his eyes glow purple.

“But he could seek something else, if he wishes,” adds Väinö.

–

Björnvaldr awakens with a powerful jerk, as though he’s been wrestling and someone has slammed him to the ground. For a moment he stares blankly and helplessly up, catching his breath.

He is on land, in his own home. He recognises this. He exits the homestead and looks up. The night is clear. In the stars, he reads an answer to a question he didn’t ask.

He plods back inside. As he passes, Þjalfi stirs. “Y'alright?” he mumbles sleepily.

“Bad dream,” says Björnvaldr. “Go back t’ sleep.”

Þjalfi, of course, doesn’t, because Þjalfi never does anything Björnvaldr says. Dumb Dane. “Bad dream, y'say?” he says, sitting upright. “It’s an omen. We shouldn’t sail t'morrow.”

Björnvaldr thinks. “We shouldn’t _raid_ ,” he says rather. “We’ll find merch'nts. We could trade with 'em instead.”

“There’s one problem with that,” says Þjalfi. “We don’t plan on bringin’ nothing to trade with. Jarl’s given us naught.”

“We _cannot_ go there t’ raid,” says Björnvaldr.

Þjalfi is one of the few people he knows that takes his expression - distressed and shell-shocked muter than normal - as a sign and then relies on it as sacred truth.

Then he yawns. “I’ll tell th’ jarl in the morning,” he says. “Before we leave. If I give him the advice, he’ll take it. But you’re sure?”

Björnvaldr feels a phantom ache in his lungs and coughs reflexively, as though they are still full of water. “I’m sure,” he says.

They’ll trade. They’ll trade with the Finns. And if they do they will prosper.

But if they attempt any raiding, they have too many islands for it, the boats will dash against the rocks. And even if they don’t, the mainlanders will see them navigate through the islands. It won’t be a simple job of land-rob-leave as it has been elsewhere.

For they employ watchers on the islands. At the shoreline. In the deep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Näkki](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/N%C3%A4kki) are shapeshifting water spirits. Sorry about the lack of proper anatomy, the science I did wasn't the biology kind.
> 
> Everything I know about [Finnish paganism](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Finnish_paganism) I learnt from A Redtail’s Dream and Stand Still, Stay Silent and that wasn’t a lot, so accuracy maybe not so much. tl;dr: the soul is split in three parts, _henki_ , _luonto_ , and _itse_. I suspect _itse_ is probably closest to the modern western concept of ‘soul’
> 
> Vikings did not always go out to raid, plunder, pillage, and bring back booty! Sometimes they went to trade (which is how they ended up with so much silver), and other times they went to settle communities. [Raids still happened](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Early_Finnish_wars), but there was also extensive trade with the Finns.


	21. (T) DenEst - A/B/O (omegaverse) AU

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> anon asked for "an omegaverse DenEst, preferably lemon". I'm not much on omegaverse aaand I'm really not taking prompts anymore but I didn't want them to go away quite empty-handed and this sparked a very quick idea - so here is something that borrows omegaverse themes and also internalised hatred, but these are not the lemons you're looking for. I’m also once again borrowing use of ‘Christian’ as a human name for Denmark from [Lilly!](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Icelilly/works)

 

“So, uh, I had a great time tonight,” Christian says.

“Me too,” says Eduard, and it’s not a lie.

“Do you - maybe wanna do this again sometime?”

–

 

> \- there are three stages of Eduard’s life that can be represented, he believes, through this one interaction -

–

“- yeah, no, I’m totally cool though. I mean like, all my best friends are alphas,” says Christian. “I’m - you know I’m really not one of those omegas? The ones that are all small, and compact and stuff. Right? I mean, look at me. I was always kind of a tom, growing up. I just don’t fit in, I never really have.”

“But you’re in the gym all the time,” Eduard points out.

“Well, yeah! ‘Cause I like to work out. An’ I’m tall, and I wanna … be more than just a tiny guy, and it just so happened that I kinda fleshed out a lot in high school, and I just - really appreciate the aesthetic of it, working on myself and such.” He takes a sip of his beer. “N-not that other omegas don’t work on themselves!” he’s quick to add. “I just think, it’s just a different strategy that they’re going for.”

“Right,” says Eduard. It’s now that he notices there’s a lot of protein on Christian’s plate - he ordered steak. That’s probably not a coincidence.

“Because it’s all alphas in all my classes at university.” Christian’s lovely lips purse as he thinks. “And I’m actually, y'know, like I don’t mind? I really don’t. I’d rather hang out with the alphas than the omegas anyway. Omegas are just, so much drama.” He laughs, and the frankness startles a laugh out of Eduard. “You know what they can be like, right. I find them super catty. And super clingy, too, if you date them.”

“Did you try?”

“Of course I tried!” says Christian. “Hah, two omegas, I bet that’s every alpha’s dream, isn’t it. But there were a lot of feelings involved and I didn’t want anything too serious at the time. I was only about the good times.”

“You know, aside from you, I don’t think I know a lot of omegas,” says Eduard, “come to think about it. You see a lot on TV though. Dressed pretty - well. Dressed in not-much.”

“Right?” Christian is smiling. “It’s - it’s not really my thing. To each his own, I just think it’s better to leave something to the imagination.”

“But that’s just on TV, I thought.”

“You’d be surprised. A lot of the ones I’ve known have been like that in real life too.”

This shocks Eduard, and he openly gapes. “Really? With gland-rings and the lycra-mesh and …everything? Just - walking about?”

“Well, no! Maybe you’ll see one or two really small ones at the beach like that, trying to show off their scents.”

“I was going to say, it would be strange to see that sort of thing in a restaurant,” Eduard replies. Christian chuckles at the mental image. “I can smell at least one or two around here, and they’re not - dressed at all like that.”

“Really? You can?”

“Sure. I’m programmed for it, aren’t I?”

Christian pouts. “But… you’re here with me, not any of those omegas.”

“Well, of course,” says Eduard. This seems to mollify Christian.

“Can you smell me?” he asks.

Eduard takes a deeper whiff. “Not … really, actually.” It’s hard to tell in a restaurant generally. Right now all Eduard can smell is Christian’s steak and bean fajitas and his own birria. If Christian hadn’t said he was an omega, Eduard is sure he’d’ve pegged him as beta.

“Exactly. Unlike other omegas I have morals. I don’t go around throwing off pheromones. Not that I don’t look great in see-thru scent-amplifying lycra-mesh -”

The worst part is, the rest of the evening is perfectly pleasant. It’s just this one glitch, utterly ignorable, a five minute conversation lost and forgotten in the wake of the rest of this wonderful evening, with a fit guy with great muscles, kind eyes, styled hair, nice taste in clothing, nice taste in restaurant, has a good job, is erudite and eloquent, is funny.

He walks Christian back to his apartment building. It’s not far from the restaurant, and not far from where Eduard parked, either.

“So, uh, I had a great time tonight,” Christian says.

“Me too,” says Eduard, and it’s not a lie.

“Do you - maybe wanna do this again sometime?”

–

 

> When Eduard was fifteen, he would have said:
> 
> _Totally, I agree completely. Also are you free next Sunday? It’s such a breath of fresh air to talk to a real omega. A really cool one. Not like the other omegas! I have no problem with omegas and all, but you’re definitely one of the cool ones. And I can talk to you, you’re chill and cool and you totally_ get _me, like an alpha but also a hot omega._  He would have put Christian on a pedestal because this flighty pursuit would have been exactly what he was told he was supposed to want, as an alpha, as the one that does the pursuing, and Christian would have been then - and to be honest, part of him still is - his dream.

–

 

> When he was twenty-three - well, as a twenty-three year old alpha, he was in the prime of his own personal turmoil, any breeze of fresh air could induce a rut, and he would have said anything and done anything to get this omega to like him enough to take him home and accept his knot. Provided they were both on contraceptives, of course. It’s not as easy as it is for betas. When he was twenty-three, he probably wouldn’t have even noticed anything. When he was twenty-three he would have been lucky if he had actually heard anything Christian had said. When he was twenty-three he remembers being constantly with an eye out for those omegas with gland-rings and lycra-mesh and unable to have a conversation with any ordinary person.
> 
> He’s not a fan of the way he acted when he was at peak sexual activity and personal narcissism, is anybody?

–

 

> But now, Eduard is twenty-eight, and he’s seen a few things, and he’s done a few things. Things he isn’t proud of, things he regrets, things he wishes he did differently. Based on the sum total of the interactions he’s had, this is what he says:

–

“Look, you’re a nice guy, and I like you, I’m - I just - I really think you have some stuff to work out.”

“Wh- I don’t, though?” Eduard is silent and gives him a withering look. “Alright, fine, I mean,” says Christian, “if you don’t want, you don’t want. It’s a little bit dumb, because, I’m the best omega. But that’s fine. You know, it’s probably because I intimidate you. I’m not omega enough for you to handle.”

And Eduard shoots back, petty and angry, “If by that you mean insecure, you’re right. I can’t handle the insecurity, and I don’t need to. I have no time for that.”

–

> No, that’s not what he says. That’s a good way to never see Christian again.
> 
> Because he’s been there once, like Christian. Desperately trying to remake himself because he never feels he fit his class (what self-respecting alpha ever looks like Eduard, in the movies?).

–

“- I’m just not ready, right now.”

It’s a total lie. And if an omega had told him, not right now, he would have interpreted it as ‘never’ but that’s because omegas are usually smaller and alphas have a temperment issue. Eduard is ready, right now. He’s hoping Christian will be ready soon too. This 'cool omega’ phase, it’s just a phase. He’ll fix his weird omega hang-ups. Eduard knows that Christian can because he’s smart enough, this entire evening has been proof of that, and you don’t start graduate work in Christian and Eduard’s department without being clever. So for Eduard, 'not right now’ really does means 'but maybe soon’. He really wants Christian to understand. He really likes him.

“But do you maybe want to grab coffee as friends?”

“Yeah, sure - I totally understand.” Christian smiles and it’s really cute and makes Eduard’s heart ache and his cheeks warm to see it. “Friends is cool too.”


End file.
